THE YELLOW SATIN GOWN.
A good Thanksgiving dinner being assured to everybody within the limits
of Byfield, the household at Park's tavern slept the sleep of the just
on the night preceding that time-honored festival, and assembled in
excellent spirits around the breakfast-table on Thanksgiving morning.
The party was strictly a family party, and the principal dish was
chicken pie, or pies rather, as there were two of them, and one was
sweetened. Thanksgiving would not have been Thanksgiving at the old
tavern without chicken pie for breakfast. Uncle Harry's father had
always had chicken pie for Thanksgiving breakfast, and his father
before him, and I was about to say that _his_ father before _him_ had
eaten it, too, in Yorkshire, England. Doubtless the latter did eat
chicken pie, for the English have always been famous for their rich
pasties, but it could not have been _Thanksgiving_ chicken pie, as
Thanksgiving, we all know, is a Puritan festival, and had its origin in
New England.
The two pies which graced Uncle Harry's breakfast-table that morning
were baked in deep, wide pans, and were so stuffed with chicken that
the top crusts had taken on a pyramidal form. They were brought in
steaming hot, with the gravy bubbling out of a hole in the apex of each
pyramid, and bearing no slight resemblance to a couple of small but
spunky volcanoes.
Uncle Harry had just inserted the point of the carving-knife into the
sweetened pie, and was opening his mouth to inquire where Ned was--that
young gentleman's place at the table being empty--when the door flew
open and he appeared quite out of breath and bursting with news.
"The McLouds were all burned out last night!" he said.
There was a second's silence, such as usually follows the announcement
of an unexpected and surprising bit of news, and then a volley of
exclamations and interrogations was discharged at him.
"When? how? at what time? save anything? all safe?"
"About two o'clock. Mr. Emerson saw it first all of a blaze, an' rushed
over an' got' em out in their night-clothes, all sound asleep."
"Children all safe, I hope," said Aunt Anna.
"Yes, though they like to have forgot the baby. Mr. Emerson pulled him
out after the bed was afire."
An exclamation of horror burst from Aunt Anna and Cousin Kitty at this
announcement.
"Didn't they save _anything_?--no clothes? nothing?"
"Not a rag," was the decisive answer.
"Dear me, that is hard indeed!"
Only six weeks before the father of this family had died, and his
kind-hearted townsmen had been much exercised as to how, even with the
house and bit of land which she owned, Mrs. McLoud was going to feed
and clothe her young brood of ravens, the oldest of which was only ten,
and here was an added complication.
"Where are they now?" asked Mrs. Park.
"At Aunt Debby's," replied Ned, chuckling. "I just saw 'em sitting
'round the breakfast-table, an' Aunt Debby an' Aunt Nanny fussing and
clucking about like a couple of old hens with a new lot of chickens."
"Ned!" remonstrated his mother, but his father only laughed.
"Well," remarked the latter, "I don't see how they ever squeezed them
all into that coop of a place."
"If Aunt Debby's house were as elastic as her heart, there would be no
limits to her benevolence," said Mrs. Park. "But we mustn't let them
eat her out of house and home. Thankful!" she called through the open
door, and Thankful appeared, grim and expectant. "Just fill a couple of
baskets, will you, and let 'Zekle take them over to Aunt Debby's. The
McLouds are all there. Put in another turkey, and anything else you
think best. And oh, tell him to tell Aunt Debby I'll drive over after
dinner and see about them. Perhaps we'd better let them go into the
Little Madam's cottage for the present," she said, looking inquiringly
at Uncle Harry, who was carefully dissecting the sweetened chicken pie.
"There's plenty of old furniture in the garret we can take down."
"Just as you say," answered Uncle Harry, heartily. He never blocked the
course of his wife's benevolence. He trusted her excellent judgment.
Once, hearing somebody say that "Mis' Park's warm heart would run away
with her yet," he had made answer, "My wife has a cool head as well as
a warm heart, and I'll risk her."
Dolly had said "when" and "how" with the rest, and then suddenly lapsed
into silence, and, with her eyes fastened upon the chicken's breast
with its wish-bone, to which she had been helped, ate rapidly. But
somehow the chicken had lost its flavor.
"We had just got them comfortably clothed for the winter," Aunt Anna
was saying to Cousin Kitty, "and now it is all to do over again. Well,
we must look over our belongings and see, not what we can spare, but
how little we can get on with ourselves, and give them the rest. A
woman and six children to clothe is no small matter."
"Oh dear!" thought Dolly, "I wish they would talk about something
else. They can have that old blue merino--I'd just as lief they would
as not." But she did not say so aloud. She kept thinking of "something
else." When Ned said, "Not a rag!" she instantly thought of that
"something else."
That "something else" was a pile of five-dollar gold-pieces in a
corner of the small drawer in her dressing-table. She rarely went
into her room without opening that drawer and taking a peep at those
gold-pieces. They were hidden under a pile of handkerchiefs. There were
five of them.
Mamma had sent her that twenty-five dollars to do what she pleased
with. That was what the note that came with the money said--"Do just
what you like with it, darling. Buy what you please."
Dolly had been for some time making up her mind as to what she _did_
want. She wanted a harp--Cousin Kitty could play the harp; but
twenty-five dollars would not buy a harp. She had thought of a pair of
pink coral bracelets. Dolly liked pretty jewellery, but she knew mamma
did not approve of girls wearing it. But at last she had come to a
decision.
There was to be a ball at the old tavern on the 22d of December, a
military ball, and Aunt Anna had said that Dolly and Ned might sit up
until twelve, at which time the turkey supper was to be served. Now,
Dolly had known how to dance almost ever since she could remember.
She had been to the afternoon dancing-school, and once to an evening
dancing-party that lasted till nine o'clock.
But a _ball_! The instant she heard about that ball she knew what she
wanted to do with the five five-dollar gold-pieces. She would buy a new
gown with it--a gown of that lustrous yellow satin that looked so much
like sunlight. She at once took Cousin Kitty into her confidence, and
Cousin Kitty said she had shown good taste in the choice of color.
"It will just suit your dark hair and eyes," said Cousin Kitty. "And
I tell you what I'll do, Dolly. I'll write to Cousin Maud, and she'll
get it for you. And those lovely yellow chrysanthemums of the Little
Madam's will be just the thing to wear with it. She'll let us have
them, I know. And you shall wear the biggest ones on your hair and
skirt, and at the girdle, and I'll make a necklace out of the tiny
ones--there'll be lots of blooms by that time, for they are all over
buds--and you shall go to the ball as 'The Chrysanthemum!'" and as she
concluded she had seized hold of Dolly, and they had _chasséed_ up and
down the long hall where they had chanced to be, in sheer delight over
the idea.
And such a lovely idea! Dolly thought; every girl will understand how
often she thought it all over, and how she imagined over and over again
how she was going to look as "The Chrysanthemum," arrayed in the gown
of lustrous satin. It is the most natural thing in the world for a girl
to wish to look pretty--why shouldn't she? So we can well imagine what
a pang wrung Dolly's heart as something seemed to whisper to her, when
Ned was telling about the burning out of the McLouds, "There's that
twenty-five dollars! Give them that."
"It is altogether too ridiculous," thought Dolly. "There's that old
blue merino, they can have that and one of my bonnets, and I can spare
two pairs of stockings."
"But those are not yours to give," whispered the something again.
"Those belong to your father and mother."
"Well, I shouldn't wonder if Cousin Kitty had written to Maud to buy
the satin, and so it's too late, anyhow," replied Dolly, defiantly. And
the something ceased whispering, and Dolly finished her breakfast quite
cheerfully.
Shortly after breakfast, however, to make everything sure, she asked
Cousin Kitty if she had sent for the satin.
"No, I haven't," said Cousin Kitty. "I meant to have sent yesterday,
but I certainly will to-morrow. There's plenty of time," she added,
observing Dolly's fallen countenance.
Then the something began its work again, and managed to make Dolly so
unhappy with its hints and suggestions, that, to strengthen herself in
her resolution _not_ to listen, she went up and took a look at the
gold-pieces, and then spent half an hour in the Little Madam's room,
playing with the cockatoo and admiring the opening blossoms of the
yellow chrysanthemums. The Little Madam was already pulling over her
scanty wardrobe to see what could be spared for the destitute McLouds,
and showed Dolly the beginning of a pair of white woollen socks for
the baby. This wasn't, after all, an encouraging atmosphere, and she
soon betook herself to the carriage-house, where Ned was setting up his
menagerie.
"I'll tell you what 'tis, Dolly," said Ned, confidentially, "we'll ask
five cents admission instead of one cent. And see what I've got on my
sign;" and he took down a board whereon he had painted, in very black
ink,
MENAGERIE OF WILD BEASTS.
FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE McLOUDS.
_Admission, Five Cents._
"That'll fetch 'em, I guess," he said, complacently. "The fellows
are going t' have a game of ball on the Green this afternoon, an' I
shouldn't wonder if we took five dollars," hammering away at a hen-coop
which he was converting into a wild-beast cage.
"'Menagerie' means a lot of wild beasts, anyway," said Dolly,
petulantly, and beginning to hate the very name of McLoud.
"So 't does," responded Ned, good-naturedly. "But I can't help it
now--can't print it over again. Took all my ink t' do that."
"It's only a good specimen of tautology," said Cousin Kitty, putting in
her head to see what they were about.
"Of _what_?" asked Ned, with hammer arrested in mid-air.
"Of tautology, Ned. It isn't a wild beast--it's rhetoric. Did you ever
read the 'Diversions of Purley?'"
"No, but it sounds good," said Ned.
"It's grammar," said Cousin Kitty, mischievously.
"Oh, thunder!" exclaimed Ned, bringing down his hammer. He wasn't fond
of grammar.
Cousin Kitty caught sight of the sign.
"Oh, that's a good idea, Ned," she said. "The poor things will need
every cent they can get. And, Ned, I'll do something. Isn't there a
place? Oh yes, there's the harness room; that's nice and clean, and
has a window just right. I'll have something in there. Five cents
admission, too. It'll be great fun!"
"What is it?" asked Ned.
"Oh, that's my secret--mine and Dotty's," laughed Cousin Kitty. "She'll
help me, and you'll have to pay to come in and find out, Master Ned."
"All right!" answered Ned, cheerfully.
"And you must print me a sign to put over the harness-room door."
"Can't," was the laconic reply--"used up all my ink."
"Take a piece of coal," said Cousin Kitty, "and print in large letters,
"ART GALLERY.
"ADMISSION,
"_Five Cents, and a Promise not to Tell what you See_."
"Oho! that's your game, is it?" said Ned.
"Why, of course. If those who went in first told, the rest wouldn't
want to go in. And I shouldn't wonder if, between us, Ned, we got
enough to clothe the baby, and the fun thrown in."
Then Cousin Kitty carried off Dolly to the Little Madam's room, where,
with much frolic and laughter, Cousin Kitty explained her plan, and
together they made out the programme, and got together their specimens
of the fine arts.
The dinner-bell rang just as they had completed their preparations. So
busy had Dolly been all the morning, that the troublesome something had
not had a chance to get in even one whisper. But beginning to plume
herself a little upon her fore-noon's work for the benefit of the
McLouds, it immediately whispered, "Well, what of that? What sacrifice
have you made? you've had a good time." And Dolly, out of sorts again,
passed into the dining-room.
Here were assembled what Ned had saucily called the "tag-rag-'n-bobtail
c'nvention," and a very respectable convention it was as to size and
quality. One of its members was Mr. Emerson, who was accompanied by his
mother. Dolly had never before seen the latter, an eccentric little
woman, who never went away from home except to the annual Thanksgiving
dinner at the tavern. She wore a canary-colored silk petticoat, with a
kind of blue short gown of the fashion of her girlhood, a blue shawl
of another shade over her shoulders, and a pink necktie. She carried a
large yellow bag, embroidered with purple flowers, and her Marie Stuart
cap of white lace was surmounted by a huge red bow. The dear old lady
looked so deliciously absurd that Dolly, meeting Ned's laughing eyes,
could hardly keep from laughing outright.
"She's wore that same rig every year since I can remember," whispered
Ned. "Isn't she a guy? and arn't she and Piggy a funny pair?"
Mr. Emerson was a devoted son to his queer little mother, who was "no
fool," the Byfieldites said, but a remarkably shrewd, observant woman.
After the preliminaries--the carving, and helping each one of the
numerous guests--the talk naturally clustered about the McLouds and
their misfortune, and Dolly again suffered tortures as that impertinent
and persistent something began its suggestive whispers. It was decided
that the Little Madam's cottage should be at once put in order for the
homeless family. The furniture would be forthcoming from the tavern
attic.
"But there's bedding--beds and sheets and pillow-cases and blankets and
quilts," said Mrs. Park. "A body does not realize how much it takes
to keep a family like that going till you come to fit it out with
everything."
"I can spare a few sheets and pillow-beers, I think," said Mrs.
Emerson, "although 'tisn't a question so much of what we can spare, I
think, as 'tis of what we can get along without ourselves. I never did
believe in giving away only what you don't want yourself--getting rid
of things and pretending it's charity."
"I don't, nuther," put in Thankful, who was changing plates and looking
after the wants of the Tuttle children, who, their mother being down
with a fever, had been invited to eat their Thanksgiving dinner at the
tavern. "My old mother used t' say, 'Give till y' _feel_ it, then what
y' give 's _wuth_ somethin'.'"
The red bow on the top of the Marie Stuart cap nodded approvingly,
and Dolly began to admit that it was within the bounds of possibility
that she might give that twenty-five dollars, and give up the lustrous
yellow satin. She sighed so deeply over her turkey at the thought, that
Cousin Kitty, hearing her, whispered, "What's the matter, Dolly?"
"Oh, nothing!" replied Dolly, trying to smile, and succeeding only in
producing a very watery smile, which Cousin Kitty attributed to the
abundance of pepper on the turnip.
"Oh dear!" thought poor Dolly, "this is a dreadful funny world to live
in, where, if you want to be good and happy, you've got to give up the
very things you want."
"And there's shoes and such things," Mrs. Emerson was saying. "You've
got to have money to get those things, and money's _skerce_ with us."
"That is true," replied Mrs. Park. "When it comes to provisions,
vegetables, and meat, we can most of us give something; and Mr. Trask
(the keeper of the Byfield "store") no doubt will do his share. But, as
you say, we've got to have money for many things."
"And just think," suggested that meddlesome something, "how much
twenty-five dollars would buy. Wouldn't it be such a nice thing to
do--to fit out that chubby little Archie McLoud with everything he
needs?"
"He _is_ a cunning little fellow," acknowledged Dolly; "but how _can_
I give up being 'The Chrysanthemum?'"
And so the war waged in Dolly's soul between her good and bad
angel--between selfishness and the love which never faileth. And
when, the puddings and pies having been brought in, Ned called her
attention to his plate, on which were six sections of pie, viz.,
custard, mince, pumpkin, cranberry, apple, and dried huckleberry,
forming a complete variegated circle, she could not even smile; and as
to appetite, she could not have eaten a morsel of even the plummiest
piece.
After dinner she went to her room, half resolved to take the five
gold-pieces out of her drawer and give them to Aunt Anna for Archie
McLoud. She lifted the handkerchief and looked at them. How suggestive
was their golden glitter of the sunlit satin! Just then Cousin Kitty
called, "Dolly, Dolly, come!--it's time we opened our art gallery. The
people are beginning to come." And Dolly, covering the gold-pieces
with the handkerchiefs, shut the drawer and ran down to join Cousin
Kitty, saying to herself all the way, "Oh, I can't! I can't!"
The art gallery was a success. Everybody who visited the menagerie
paid another five cents and went into the harness room. Almost
everybody, too, gave ten or twenty cents admission, and would take no
change.
"No, keep it; it's for the McLouds," they said.
The game of ball on the Green was a semi-annual affair, played on
Thanksgiving-day and the day of the April fast; and if the weather was
fine a large part of the town, that is, of the masculine portion, were
present, either as players or as lookers-on, and hardly any of the
crowd failed to visit the menagerie.
They were admitted to the art gallery four at a time, after promising
not to tell what they saw. Bursts of laughter issuing from behind
the closed door, whetted the curiosity of those who had not been
in, while those who had, laughed again. A few, it is true, came out
looking bewildered. They belonged to those hapless folk who cannot see
a joke. Here is the catalogue written out by Cousin Kitty to assist
the visitors to the art gallery. If you are one of those hapless
individuals who cannot see a joke, you will find little of interest
or of wit in this catalogue. But if you have, as I trust, a sense of
humor, you will appreciate Cousin Kitty's efforts, as most of her
visitors did.
ART GALLERY.
EXHIBITION OF PAINTINGS AND STATUARY
IN THE HARNESS ROOM
OF
PARK'S TAVERN.
NO EXPENSE HAS BEEN SPARED TO MAKE THIS COLLECTION
ONE OF THE BEST IN THE COUNTRY.
_Connoisseurs declare that nothing like these artistic gems can be
found, even in the finest European galleries._
1. View of Boston (_wood-cut_) _A. Wheelwright._
2. A Marble Group _M. Clay._
3. Mustered In and Mustered Out
(_companion pieces_) _G. Ullem._
4. View of the Red Sea and Plains Beyond _Unknown._
5. Old English Lyre _Lon. D. Ontimes._
6. Lay of the Last Minstrel _Hennessey._
7. A Bridal Scene _S. T. Able._
8. Bonaparte Crossing the Rhine _Sol. D. A. Gain._
9. A Commentator on the Acts _D. Seave._
10. Cain and Abel _Unknown._
11. Things to Adore _H. Ware._
12. View of Cologne _N. Farina._
13. The Seasons _C. Ondiment._
14. The Drill _Steele._
15. Flower of the Family (_very fine_) _Wheatleigh._
16. One of the Constellations _T. Inman._
17. Alpine Scenery (_after Bierstadt_) _A. Carpenter._
18. Last Hop of the Season _Beers._
19. Sweet Memories of Childhood _B. Stick._
20. The Skipper's Home (_a spirited
scene_) _Cheeseborough._
21. Ho, for the Diggings! _Farmer._
22. The Last Shot _Schumaker._
23. Hart and Doe _Baker._
24. Wayworn Travellers _Crispin._
25. Handel's Bust _B. Room._
26. Little Indian _C. Cobb._
27. All Afloat (_a marine view_) _Waterman._
28. The Lost Heir (_a subject from Hood's
poems_) _H. Dresser._
29. Village on the Rhine _Cheeseborough._
30. The Last of the Crispins (_wood-cut_) _Schumacher._
31. The Light of Other Days _T. Chandlers._
32. The Old Mill _C. Grinder._
The menagerie, too, was a success. The monkey outdid himself, and
went through all the performances to which he had been trained in his
original menagerie. He posed as a dandy with a lighted cigar, and rode
Skatta in a ring, leaping through a hoop which Ned had hung from the
ceiling. It was with sorrow that his audience learned that he was to
be returned to his rightful owners by stage the next day.
Johnny Tuttle made an admirable half of an elephant, of which Jimmy
Trask was the other half, and the combined two moved about as clumsily
and disjointedly as the real beast could have done. It was pronounced
to be an admirable and accurate representation, in color and texture
of skin, in trunk, tusks, tail, and feet.
There was a white rabbit in a cage, a weasel, a rat painted red, some
blue-and-pink mice, and Johnny Tuttle's crow, who could talk like Mr.
Emerson and cough like Phœbe, the tailoress, who was afflicted with a
chronic cough. There was, at first, talk of adding the Little Madam's
Australian cockatoo to the collection, but Skipper Joe said monkeys
and parrots were natural enemies, and it would never do to have them
together in the same room "loose;" they'd be sure to fight, and one of
the two, if not both, would be killed. But the blue-eyed Persian cat
was there, and conducted herself with perfect propriety, and was much
admired.
Summing up the proceeds from the menagerie and art gallery, Cousin
Kitty and Ned found they had nineteen dollars and seventy-three cents,
"which will clothe the baby handsomely," said Cousin Kitty; "and I
shall hereafter consider myself as a foster-mother to the little
witch."
Through all the stir and interest and merriment of the afternoon, the
meddlesome something had kept silence, but now it began to bestir
itself, and whispered,
"Dear little Archie! What a pity somebody couldn't clothe him."
"Well, there's Aunt Anna and lots of folks. I don't see why I should
give up something I've planned and want so much."
"But don't you _want_ to do it? I don't believe you'd be half as happy
going to the ball as 'The Chrysanthemum' as you would to see him in a
cunning little suit you had bought for him."
And then Dolly began to think about Archie, remembering how one day
she had found him far from home, picking buttercups by the roadside,
and had taken him home on Skatta, and how cunning the little
bareheaded fellow was, with his rings of curly black hair like a baby
Bacchus.
And then she made a sudden resolution, and ran quickly up to her room,
saying all the way, "I will; yes, I will! I will! I will!" snatched
the pile of gold coins from the corner of the drawer, and running down
again, thrust them into Aunt Anna's hand, saying, "I'll give those to
buy clothes for Archie."
Aunt Anna, who had known all about the gold-pieces and the plan about
the yellow satin, looked astonished, and said, "Do you know what you
are doing, Dolly?"
"Oh, please, don't say a word, Auntie! just take them," entreated
Dolly, distressfully. And so Aunt Anna, understanding by intuition
the situation, forebore to say anything more, having had herself, in
former years, many a fierce battle with selfishness, and knowing how
spent and sore such a battle often leaves the victor.
After Dolly got to bed that night she had a good cry, in which all
regrets for the vanished chrysanthemum dream were washed away. She
did not tell anybody about that battle, not even mamma. But years
after, when she was obliged to choose a fancy dress for a brilliant
party in London, she remembered that old dream, and went to the party
as "The Chrysanthemum," in a gown of lustrous yellow satin, bordered
with exquisite chrysanthemums and with ornaments of yellow amber.
And then, for the first time, she told some one who had become even
dearer than mamma, the story of Archie McLoud and the five five-dollar
gold-pieces.