I always did admire surprises, my diary, so when mother came in from
the station one day not long ago and said there was a surprise for me
I thought sure it must be a dessert for dinner, or a package come by
express, as it isn't Christmas for anything to be in the toe of my
stocking. But mother shook her head and smiled at all of these. She
said it was a heap better, and it is.
A curious thing has happened in this family. It's happened a little to
father, for he's kept awake by it; a good deal to mother, for she has
to tell how to tend to it; an awful lot to Dilsey, for she has to walk
it and feed it and get it to sleep; but it has happened most of all to
Bertha, for it's to _her_ that the stork (or the doctor, or out of
the rose bush--they tell you so many different tales you never know
which to believe) brought it. Just about that time Bertha happened not
to be feeling very well, so mother wrote for her to come down to our
house where the air would be good for her, and then she would have
Dilsey to tend to it. You'd never guess what it is, my diary, so I'll
tell you. It's a baby! A live one with open and shut eyes, and can
cry; you don't have to pull a string to make it, either. This makes it
better than even the finest doll, and, as I'm above dolls anyhow, a
baby is more suitable to one of my age. The only bad part about it is
that you can't lock it up in the wardrobe when you get through playing
with it. Sometimes I have wished it was the kind you had to pull a
string to make cry, and then I'd cut the string off so we would have a
few peaceful nights, but apt as not this wouldn't be healthy for it,
for I guess the stork (or the doctor, or out of the rose bush) knew
best how to fix it.
Mr. Parkes is the baby's father, and also Bertha's husband. He is one
of the nicest men you ever saw, pleasant all the time, which people
say is because he's a drummer which sells things. He carries valises
full of lovely crackers and little cakes with icing on the top, and
calls it his "line." I've heard Rufe and Cousin Eunice talk about
"lines falling in pleasant places," and I think it must mean something
like this, for our house has been a pleasant place since Saturday
night when he came to spend Sunday with us and Bertha. Some days he
sells as much as five hundred dollars worth of cake to _one_ man,
though I don't see what keeps him from _dying_ that bought them of
stomach ache, for I've had it myself since he's been here
considerable. He and father talk a heap about Mr. Parkes' "house" in
the city. He writes to the house every day and it writes back to him,
and he is always saying what he'll do "when he hears from the house,"
just like it was folks.
He wears an elk's head on the lapel of his coat for an ornament and
another on his watch chain, and even has a pair of purple socks with
white elks on them, and laughs a good deal, which has been a benefit
to Bertha's disposition since she married him. If the baby wakes up
and cries for her bottle as late as _eleven_ o'clock at night, which
would give most men room to say things, he's just as jolly as if it
was broad daylight, and says so loud you can hear him in the next
room: "Tonsound her little skin! Her is her daddy's own kid--_her_
knows that eleven o'clock calls for a bottle, only daddy wants _his_
cold, and her wants _hers_ warmed!" And out to the kitchen he goes and
warms it like a gentleman. I believe Mr. Parkes would be a gentleman
even if he had _twins_.
Of course there never is any good happens to your family without
something bad happening along with it. A misfortune was sent to us one
morning when the train came. It was Aunt Laura, mother's sister, and
Bertha's and my aunt. It is a habit of hers to come to our house
every summer, but this time she came before we were looking for her,
having got mad at the relatives where she was. So she has changed her
will and is going to leave all her money to Bertha's baby, and she
told mother that she came right on down as soon as she decided on this
to see if the baby was a nice, well-behaved child, as it didn't run in
the family for the children to be any too well-behaved; and she looked
at me when she said the last. Bertha was in a flutter when she heard
it, but mother just laughed and said the baby was equally as
well-behaved as most eight-weeks-old children.
Aunt Laura has spit-curls, but a great deal of money, having been a
school teacher ever since she was born, and never spending her money
buying her little nieces candy and pretty dresses. She admires church
and preachers more than anything, but I don't, and when the money was
willed to _me_ one time I lost my chance by saying at the table when
Brother Sheffield was there eating chicken and said he liked the
gizzard, right quick, before I thought of manners, "Father, don't
give it to him--_he_ ain't little!" The money has been willed to every
member of the family, for she gets mad at one and unwills it away from
them onto another, until we've all had a trial.
But the poetry books say it's a black cloud that don't blow somebody a
silver lining, and I guess the silver lining to Aunt Laura is that
she's in love with Brother Sheffield, which will give me a good many
new thoughts to write about; for before when I was writing about
couples it was always the man that was trying to marry the lady, but
now it's the other way, which you can always count on when you see
spit-curls. Even this is better to write about than just a baby,
though, for they mostly do the same thing day after day; but you can
never tell what a _loving_ person will do to thrill your diary.
It was till plumb breakfast time this morning before Aunt Laura made
known to us what new thing she's got up to talk about all the time.
Father calls it a "fad." He said the minute he saw her come he was
willing to bet on anything, from the latest breakfast food to an Aunty
Saloon League, but mother told him it was sinful to bet about such
things, for last summer it was foreign missions. It is just as well
that he didn't bet, for he would have lost, it being the heart disease
which she has very bad. She said she didn't tell us right at first
because she knew we didn't care anything about hearing it, but she
thought we better be prepared in case a spell came on her suddenly,
for she had felt worse symptoms lately than ever before. Bertha had
acted awful good all day and not let the baby cry nor slobber on Aunt
Laura for the sake of the will.
I guess I've been worse this last week than ever before, for it is the
first time I've been ashamed to tell what I've done in my diary.
Bertha knows if Aunt Laura could get Brother Sheffield to marry her
she would unwill the money from the baby; so she thinks up things to
tell me to do to keep them from being together, and I've been doing
them. One time I hid her purple Sunday bonnet, then her curls to keep
her from going to prayer-meeting, but I'm glad to say that I have
never taken the dimes which Bertha said she would give me for doing
them. I hate Aunt Laura enough to do mean things to her myself, which
is a better principle than to do them just for dimes.
This is Sunday again and I have to go to church. Somehow, during the
summer, Sunday smells like black silk, for mother and all the ladies
that can afford it wear it to church to let the others see how well
off they are. When I was _right_ little and got tee-ninsy cards at
Sunday-school I imagined Heaven looked like those cards, all
lilies-of-the-valley and little pink lambs, but since I've grown older
my views have changed. Preachers always think you can't go to Heaven
unless you do just like they do, and I couldn't be like a preacher to
save my life, except about chicken.
Aunt Laura had to look all over the place for her black silk waist
this morning and then not find it, so she got into a bad spell and
couldn't go to church. After the sermon was over and we were trying to
forget it by standing around and telling the other ladies how much
fruit we had put up this past week, Brother Sheffield came up and
asked mother if Aunt Laura was sick, not being out to services. Mother
said she was, but she hoped to find her all right when we got home, as
she never was sick very long, and I knew she would be well because it
was ice-cream for dinner. He said then he'd be over to see her this
afternoon as he hadn't seen her in so long.
Well, it was awfully hot all the afternoon, and, as he wouldn't be
over till late so as to be invited to supper, Aunt Laura decided to
take off her front hair and have a nap after dinner. Now, up to this
time I have been afraid to mention even in my diary about Bertha's
bad habit. I really like Bertha better than I did before she was
married, and I knew if Aunt Laura was to catch on to it she would
change from the baby right away, for Brother Sheffield calls it "the
trade-mark of Jezebel," which is a Bible lady, though the preachers
always throw her up to anybody they don't like. So Bertha keeps this
locked away good in the little left-handed drawer of her bureau, and
don't anybody but me know it's there.
It was getting late when brother Sheffield drove up to the gate. He is
an old man and his knees are so poor that they look like they would
punch through his trousers legs if he was to get down on them to ask a
lady to marry him, as they do in books. In fact, I have stayed around
the parlor and watched considerable, thinking how mortified I'd feel
if they were to punch through, but he hasn't ever got down on them
yet. His name is Gideon, which makes it worse for him, too. Cousin
Eunice said Ann Lisbeth's name is a very old one in the country
across the ocean where she used to live, but I know there ain't an
older name on earth than Gideon. Aunt Laura ought to have been named
the feminine of it, instead of that beautiful name that has so much
lovely poetry written about it.
Anyhow, I was surprised that she wasn't dressed up in a clean waist
and down on the front porch to meet him, but I went up-stairs right
quick to tell her he was there. She was still asleep and woke up as
mad and red as folks always do that go to sleep in the summer. I told
her he was already on the porch.
"Well, help me get dressed, won't you, instead of standing there
staring at me as if you never saw anybody with their front hair off
and their upper plate out before? Run to the well and bring me some
fresh water, and, say, come back by your mother's room and bring me
her box of powder and puff. I spilt all of mine looking in the drawer
this morning for that pestiferous waist. Hurry!"
I ran to the well and got the water, but coming back by mother's room
I saw that Brother Sheffield was facing the door and would have seen
me, which wouldn't have been nice to bring out a box and puff before a
man, much less a preacher, so I didn't get the powder. I told Aunt
Laura to get Bertha's, when she commenced fussing, for I had passed
her room and saw that she had dressed in a big hurry and left the
bureau unlocked, the room being very hot and dark, the baby being
asleep, on account of the flies. She hushed then and said for me to go
down and tell him that she would be out in a few minutes, which I did.
I left him on the porch fanning while I went out to a little place I
have under the porch where it is nice and quiet and they can't find
you reading fairy tales when they want you for something; but _you_
can hear _them_ talking.
Pretty soon Aunt Laura came out, and in her dressed-up voice commenced
telling him how sorry she was that she kept him waiting. But before
she had more than got it said he asked her excited-like what was the
matter with her. It seemed like when he got excited she did too, so
she grabbed her stomach (not that I saw her, but I know she always
does it here lately when she gets mad or scared) and said:
"Oh, my heart! It must be the heart disease!"
He interrupted her again, a heap too quick and sharp for a preacher:
"Your heart _nothing_! Go and look at your _face_!"
That was more than I could stand, so out from under the porch I slid,
just in time to see Aunt Laura, with her face as red as the Indians
they have in sideshows, turn and run into the hall where she could
look at herself in the hat-rack looking-glass. She gave one tremendous
yell which woke the baby and made the rest of the family come flying
in from where they were. It wasn't a minute before me and Brother
Sheffield were in the hall with her and mother and father running in
off of the back porch, and Dilsey with the baby in her arms leaning
over the banisters to see what was the matter.
"It's my death stroke," Aunt Laura said, just like she knew what she
was talking about. "The doctor's books say it comes on this way," she
kept on, while the preacher fanned her and we were all flying around
doing things for her, and me standing still wondering how on earth
come her face so fiery red. "Thank Heaven, I die in the conviction of
having lived a good life, _and_ willed all my money to the only member
of my family that has ever treated me with any respect." This did look
kinder like the truth, for the baby was the only member of the family
which was crying over this sad occasion; but she was very loud and
hard.
"I've been visited by Providence with a curious family," poor Aunt
Laura said, looking very mad toward father and mother, "but they will
soon have cause to regret all their strange ways with me. If there was
_one_ person in this world that _did_ care for me, to _that_ one
should my will be changed, for there is little consolation in leaving
your property to a baby."
Brother Sheffield here spoke up and said as Aunt Laura "so fully
realized her hopeless condition he thought they better have some
conversation together as to her spiritual welfare. He desired a few
moments alone with her."
"Yes," said Aunt Laura right quick, "_private_ conversation. My soul's
safety is not to be discussed in the presence of my enemies!"
So out we all got, me along with the rest of them, which was a great
disappointment, for I could have learned a good deal if there had been
any way of staying in there. They talked a long time and we could hear
a few remarks now and then, being as we couldn't think of anything to
say ourselves, and it was very still on the porch. Once or twice we
heard her say very decided-like that indeed she _wasn't_ mistaken, for
every book she had read on the subject said it was exactly that kind
of a symptom. And then he would talk some, and one time he seemed to
doubt her word so that she fairly yelled out, the way she does when
he ain't around: "Can you doubt the hideous mark of death that has
this hour appeared upon my face? Isn't it proof that my flesh is being
prepared for the worms?" which _did_ sound pitiful and scary, too, it
being kinder dark on the porch. This seemed to do the work, for in a
few minutes she called us in and told us that Brother Sheffield had
asked her to marry him, and although she had never before considered
him in the light of a lover, still she was going to do it if the Lord
let her live an hour, while father could ride over for a preacher and
she could change her will. Brother Sheffield was crying like he does
when he is calling mourners, and his voice would hardly talk, but he
managed to say:
"Yes, she has done me the honor to accept me; she, a woman of
intellect and _wealth_, and me, only a poor, humble worker----" He
couldn't get any further, but I had heard it so many times before that
I knew it was "humble worker of the vineyard," though father says he
is more of a _hungry_ eater of the _barnyard_.
When Aunt Laura mentioned about being married in an hour Brother
Sheffield seemed to take a second thought, and spoke up kinder weak
and said he didn't know whether it was exactly right to be married on
Sunday or not. When Aunt Laura saw him begin to weaken it brought on
such a hard spell that she laid back on the sofa with her eyes shut,
like she was sure enough dead. This really scared mother, and she told
Mammy Lou, who had her head poked in at the back door, to run for some
water. Mammy brought the bucket in off the back porch and commenced
sousing it over Aunt Laura by the handsful, which didn't bring her to;
but a strange thing happened, which, if it wasn't me that saw it,
anybody would think it was a story, but I cross my heart that the
water that dribbled down off her face on to her clean waist was
_pink_!
"Jumping Jerusalem!" father said, "the heart disease is washing off!"
This made Aunt Laura open her eyes, and by that time Mammy Lou had got
a towel and was wiping her face off all over, which seemed to make it
look natural again. Not one of us knew what to think of such a strange
disease till all of a sudden I remembered Bertha's bad habit! And then
I knew it was all off with Aunt Laura and the marrying. It wasn't very
long till they all caught on to what it was on her face; and the worst
part of it was that Brother Sheffield said he believed she did it
_a-purpose_. He rose up very proud, and looking kinder relieved and
said he could never marry a woman who would "defile herself with the
trade-mark of Jezebel."
When he commenced throwing up Jezebel to Aunt Laura she threw up Esau
to him, which sold himself for a "mess of pottage," though this never
did sound lady-like to me, even coming from the pulpit. So Esau went
out and drove straight home, and Jezebel went up-stairs and packed her
trunk to go home early in the morning, never having been so insulted
by relatives before in her life.
So the marrying is off and the baby is disinherited, which will be a
relief to it when it gets big enough to understand. But the worst part
is that Aunt Laura blames the whole thing on me, for she says I had
her ruination in mind when I sicked her on to that little left-handed
drawer. Of course it ain't so, but it proves that people ought to
raise the blind and be sure it's _whitening_ they're spreading on,
even if the baby is asleep.