 CHAPTER I It was a queer-looking room. Auntie Julia had swept and dusted it and done her best to give it a cleared-up air, but it didn't look cleared up a bit. In the first place the little round table was out of place, drawn up before the fire, and then it had strange articles on it for a sitting-room table. There was a little bit of a hairbrush about six inches long, handle and all, and in it the very tiniest specimen of a fine comb that you ever saw. Oh, it wasn't as long as your littlest finger. There was a little white silk heart stuck full of bits of pins, and for these things the books and papers were pushed one side, as if they were of no consequence. Then I think there was something on every chair in the room. I know there was a white cloak, very long, and lined with blue, and the funniest little speck of a white silk bonnet about large enough for the cat lying on the large rocking chair. Then on the sofa chair, which was drawn up before the fire, was a wonderful little heap of flannel and cambrick and lace. Another chair did duty as a towel rack, for there were to be unusual proceedings in the living room that morning. But the low rocker contained the sum and substance of all this disturbance, a crowing, dancing, laughing baby with great, beautiful eyes and wonderful, long eyelashes. Not a large baby, nor yet a small one, at least not a very young one, but she was dainty enough in size to have answered very well for a large wax doll. Only I should pity the poor little hands that should hold this springy, fluttering doll in one place for one minute at a time. Dear me, how she kicked and crowed and spattered her mites of hands together as one troublesome garment after another fell off. Baby didn't believe in clothes. She generally yelled when they were being put on, and fairly chuckled when the last pin was drawn out and the fair limbs were free and light. Gradually the company gathered to see the performance, grandma and aunties. Generally baby was dressed in her own room, but on this particular morning her fire had gone out and the room grew chilly, so mama and all the aunties had been rushing up and downstairs making ready the sitting-room for her royal highness. Grandma had to be waited for a little. She was in the kitchen with the sharp knife and two fat chickens, but presently she came and baby was dumped into her bathtub. Ah, you should have seen her then, such a kicking and splashing and splattering and yelling as there was. She had several little accomplishments. One was to toss water at us with her two tiny hands, and another to put up her sweet rosebud lips all dripping with water as if to kiss you, and when you had almost got the precious kiss suddenly to draw back and bury her round, wet head in mama's lap. What a baby she was, and what a long process the dressing was, to be sure. With first one auntie and then another to claim a kiss, with baby in her little skirts, to insist on going that minute to grandma for a frolic without waiting for her dress, which, to tell you the truth, she never liked. If her plump little doubled up fists were coaxed into the embroidered sleeves without my ladies giving a good loud yell or two, we considered that there had been a triumph. Then we had the usual discussion as to whom she looked like. I declare, Grandma would say, I never noticed before that her eyes were so much like Isabella's. Then I, oh mother, how can you think so? They're exactly like her papa's. Then Aunt Julia, oh nonsense, they are not like anybody's eyes that ever I saw before. Then Mama, they are very sleepy eyes, and I want her to have her walk before she sleeps. Then there was a rush for the white cloak and the cat's bonnet, and such a squirming and kicking and squealing as there was before that bonnet was tied under the ridiculous little chin. Grandma danced up and down and clapped her hands. Aunt Julia knocked on the window and rattled the string of spools and blew on the whistle. I barked like a dog and peeped like a chicken, crowed like a rooster, and mewed like a cat, and at last she was ready and I carried her off in triumph. I'll not tell you about our walk, it would take too long, but in due time we returned found the sitting-room restored to order and Mama in the sewing-room finishing an important dress for our important baby. From her presently came a request. Would Auntie Belle get baby to sleep? Mama is in such a hurry. Ah, would I! That was the question. I would try, but nothing certainly looked more improbable than that those great, dark, wandering eyes would shut, and that busy little head that bobbed so restlessly on my shoulder would consent to lie quiet in the crib. Still there was nothing like trying, and I distinctly remember that I tried. At first we sat by the window, but baby worked industriously at catching the one fly that buzzed there. Then when I had disposed of him she bent all her energies on catching a sun-beam that was playing with the leaves outside and their shadow within. I meekly drew down the shade, changed my seat, and tried again. I sang a song so sleepy and soft that I thought she could not resist it. I fitted words to it as I sang about the door, the floor, the light, the night, anything to keep my tongue steadily moving, and when I had completed the twenty-seventh verse her eyes shone like stars and the head cuddled in my neck and bobbed as vigorously as ever. Then I tried quick music, and the result was that the head came round to my face, and presently two baby hands were pulling earnestly at my mouth, and as I opened it to laugh the wandering eyes looked eagerly down my throat. Evidently she was looking for my tune. She wanted to seize it in her baby fingers and pick it to pieces. Oh foolish little darling, working so busily to catch the shadow of a few leaves on the carpet, and failing in that to try to pick from my throat the poor little tune instead of doing your duty in going to sleep. I looked into spare it my writing materials on the table, for I was a writer of books then as now, and I may as well tell you just here that this same baby of which I write now spends long hours curled up in some out-of-the-way corner reading my books. But she did not care that day whether there was ever another book written or not. I laid her flat on her back and softly trotted her at which she laughed merrily. I put her over my left shoulder, and she reached after the curtain tassel and swung it gleefully. I tried the right shoulder, and she clutched at a handful of my hair with a yell of delight. I said, Oh baby, baby, what shall I do with you? And she answered, Agoo-bababma-ma-ma-ka-ya-agu, drying out the ooze with great satisfaction. At last she succumbed, the fringed lids drooped, and the little hands relaxed. I sang softly, more softly, and softer still, and presently went with cat-like tread and laid her in the crib. With what care I tucked her in and how carefully I turned to tiptoe away, when, to my dismay, I heard a low musical, Agoo! Oh, the naughty darling, how she tried my patience that day! There was another siege with the fly, the tassel, the hair, and with the card-receiver, and the ink-stand added there too. Then another, and I said, A real victory this time, surely! Another trip to the crib and a tucking up. Then Grandma came on tiptoe and whispered, Is she asleep at last? I should hope so. I don't believe she is, her eyes don't look shut. She is. She has cheated me once, but it is real this time. She isn't. There is a roguish pucker to her mouth. And at that particular moment the wicked little sprite opened wide her dancing eyes and laughed the merriest of laughs. Well, now you may lie there, I said emphatically. You are a naughty little brownie, and I shall not take you up again. And I walked away and left her, and she kicked and chuckled and played bow-peep at me with the corner of the blanket, but I wrote on, on heeding. By and by there came a yawn, and when I looked that way again, one little pink arm was tossed over her head, the other still reached out for her blanket, but the eyes were soundly and sleepily shut, and the soft, regular breaths showed that she had gotten herself to sleep. In vain after that did I try to continue my story. Quiet reigned, but I could not write. The baby had bewitched me. I felt a conjuring what the thoughts were that kept her busy brain awake so long. Finally I wrote out the result of my conjectures. I have read it to her since, and she says I am undoubtedly correct. I will copy it here to solace other troubled aunties. By, oh baby, that's what my auntie sings over and over. I know what that means. It means shut your eyes and go to sleep. But I can't go to sleep. My eyes won't stay shut. They fly right open. Why don't auntie pin them, I wonder. She pins her collar on. Pin's scratch. I scratched my finger one day. I wonder, could they scratch my eyes? Then why don't they scratch my auntie's collar? There's a fly. He creeps all over the window. I wish auntie would rock him to sleep. Maybe he would go bye-bye. I can't. He says zzzzzz all the time. I tried to pick the sunshine off the carpet. I got my hand all full, but it slipped away. I want the sun. I never had it. I told Auntie to get it for me, but she didn't understand. Auntie don't understand very well. Nobody does. The sun is bright. So is the fire. I wanted the fire last night. Mama wouldn't let me have it. People won't let me have anything. There's a green tassel. I pulled it. I pulled Auntie's hair, too. Auntie squealed. The tassel didn't squeal. It don't speak at all. I wonder why. Maybe it hasn't any mouth. But the fly hasn't any either, and it speaks. I am awful tired, but I can't seep ins. Auntie put me in the crib once, because I shut my eyes to rest them. But then I opened them again right away, because I don't like my crib. It don't sing. Auntie keeps sings in her mouth. I looked in it, but I didn't see them. But they are there. I wish the pussycat would come in. I wish that old song was all gone. I don't think it's pretty. I wish Mama would come, or Grandma, or something. There's the ink in that round box. Auntie writes. I want to write. I can. I tried once, and it write it just like Auntie. I'll snatch at it. I didn't get it. Auntie held me tight. They always do when I want things. Then I squealed, and she moved her chair away from all the pretty things. I'm in my crib now. There's nothing to do. Auntie's gone. She don't love me, because I don't go bye-bye. But I can't. Auntie is writing with a bright yellow stick. The stick says sssss, and makes little marks. It talks like the fly some. But I don't know what it says. Why don't my crib sing to me? It don't have any mouth to keep sings in. I've got a mouth. I can sing. I'll sing to myself. Ah, ah, ah, ah. That's my sleepy song. Now I guess it's night. My eyes most shut up. I can sing myself seepins. Ah, ah, ah, ah. I guess I'm all asleep. When I wake up, I'll tip that pitcher over and see the water run away from me. I know just how I can do it. There's a pin on the floor. When I get up, I'll pick at it and put it in my mouth. I always put pins in my mouth. I want to feel of the bright light that they have when it gets dark. I'm going to do it tonight. There's a book. Books talk when you tear them. They say sssssss. I'll tear that into little bits when I wake up. Then I'll put the bits in my mouth. I always do. Now I'm gone. Bye-bye. I'm good, baby, now. CHAPTER II One day we took her to church, her very first appearance there. I dressed her myself, and it seemed to me I should never, never get all the funny little skirts and dress and things on right side out and buttoned and pinned and tied to my satisfaction. Then the crowning act of triumph was to get the dainty white hat tied under her chin. Throughout the process she capered and danced and crowed and chattered. To go to church was something for which her little soul had longed ever since she had balanced herself on her toes in the big chair and watched the people pass on their way thither. At last we were started, not without many anxious injunctions from Mama, who was to follow us a few minutes later. Her parting sentence, given between the last two or three kisses, was, Now Minnie will remember not to speak a word when the minister stands up in the pulpit. He will talk, you know, and Minnie will not speak a word, will she? And Minnie's answer was slow and impressive. No indeed, not at all! When the minister speaks, Minnie will keep just as still. Fairly seated in the great church, with the solemn toned organ peeling through the building, surprise and awe kept the little midget very quiet. Pretty little pink flushes came and went on her fair face, and her lips were parted in the eagerness of listening and looking, for the people were coming in one constant procession past our seat. Ever and in none many caught glimpses of a familiar face, but the awe was upon her still, and beyond lifting up a small forefinger and solemnly pointing it at them, she made no demonstration. Presently came the home faces, Grandma and Grandpa and Papa and Mama and aunties, one, two, three. Now Grandma had chosen this unfortunate Sunday in which to appear in a new bonnet, in the soft white border of which there nestled one wee pink flower, so dainty and perfect that Minnie's absurd little nose was all in a tremble to smell of it. The organ had softened into the lowest and tenderest of trembles. Plenty of friends surrounded Minnie, faces that she always saw about her. Somewhat of the strangeness had worn away. She looked about her eagerly, the minister was certainly not speaking. To her short-sighted vision he was nowhere to be seen. She spoke in breathless haste lest he might get ready to speak before she finished. Oh Grandma, Grandma, hold down your head quick and let me smell the posy. Then such a shaking of heads and whispering as followed. Mama even gave her a little bit of a shake and put her quite away from my protecting arms and set her down firmly on the seat beside herself. She did get one smell though. As she was whisked past the beautiful flower she snuffed up her little nose with a noise that even the minister must have heard. There was a sudden putting of handkerchiefs to people's mouths and a good deal of unnecessary coughing done. The minister for that particular Sunday was no other than the little lady's Uncle Charlie, which accounted for her being there herself, everybody being so anxious to hear him, that we almost could not stay at home to look after Midget. She settled into absolute quiet and looked up at the pulpit with a face as wise as an owl's. So perfect was she that her Mama, beguiled into forgetfulness, relaxed the hold of her little hand, and we all gave undivided attention to Uncle Charlie for the space of five minutes. I think that was all that any of us heard of that sermon. Taking advantage of our trust in her goodness, the small sprite slipped suddenly and silently from her seat, and in another second had glided past two astonished aunties and was marching solemnly down the aisle. Mama looked at Grandma the picture of despair, and telegraphed her a question to which Grandma shook her head. The question asked was, Shall I try to catch her? And Grandma's eyes and heads said, No, no, you know she will squeal like a little Indian if you try to, perhaps she will be quiet. Those dreadful squeals shrill as bugles that the naughty little maiden was in the habit of giving over things that did not suit, kept us all meekly in our seats, using our fans vigorously to keep down the rising blood and waiting for what would come next. Very softly the slippered feet moved down the carpeted aisle. No cat could have done it better. Now and then she stopped when she saw a familiar face to make a call. Occasionally she took a seat on some footstool and looked industriously for pictures in a hymn-book, then slipped out on her travels. Occasionally she paused in her slow walk and fixed her great, wise eyes on the minister. Every second I expected to hear her ringing voice peel out, Uncle Charlie! But no, the little lips were puckered into a determined silence, and after looking at him steadily for a moment or two she would move quietly on. As she neared the pulpit our hearts fairly stopped beating. What, oh, what should we do if she should take a fancy to mount the steps and pay Uncle Charlie a visit? The squeals must be endured in that case, and the weak culprit be carried out of church. I almost saw her little feet kicking in a frantic attempt to get away, but I closed my fan and put up my Bible, making ready to start at a minute's notice. She would go quietly with me if she would with any one. But her good genius must have walked beside her just then. She paused by the pulpit steps. She even put one tiny foot on the first stair, but as quickly drew it back and slipped silently across the church to the other side and continued her social visits here and there. I hope Uncle Charlie will never again preach so long a sermon as he did that day, at least so long a one as it seemed to me, why I thought it must have been hours since she first began to walk softly through that great church. I wore my fan out, and Midget's mama bit a hole in the corner of hers, and Grandma mopped her face every two minutes with her handkerchief and unpinned her lace shawl. It was not so much what the little morsel did. She was quiet enough, a mouse would have made more noise. But there was all the time the wonderment as to what she would do next. At last the sermon was ended. Uncle Charlie sat down, and the minister arose and read the closing hymn. Meantime Midget made a call on a solemn old gentleman who looked at her sternly through his glasses. When the organ rolled its voice through the church, she started and turned around. Not a familiar face was near her. She stood on tiptoe and looked up and down the aisle. Her mama gave me a despairing nod and whispered, She'll cry now, I mean to go for her. No she won't, whispered Grandma. Let her alone, I want to see what she will do. What she did was to come with swift, silent steps up the aisle, around the corner seat with a very sober face, until she caught a glimpse of Uncle Charlie in the pulpit. Then she subsided into her jog trot again. She had discovered a friend. Just as the minister had reached the amen of the benediction, her naughty little feet stepped into grandpa's pew, and recognizing in the rustle and bustle and whispering all about her that the hour of silence was over, she looked up at mama with a serene face and said, I didn't speak a word, not a single word at all, did I mama? What a grieved, astonished pucker her lips put on as mama nervously grasped her hand and said, Speak a word, you little midget, you might as well have spoken twenty words. At home we all sat down with our hats and sacks still on to rest and breathe after the morning's excitement. Mama fanned herself with great energy. I declare, she said, I haven't had such a sweat this summer. Did you ever see anything like it? I expected every minute that she would take the preaching into her own hands, said Uncle Charlie. I thought she would go and make you a call, said Grandma. She looked it out of her eyes. I'm only too thankful that she didn't squeal, said I, tugging at my glove that was wet and would not come off. Under all this fire of comment Mini sat on grandpa's lap where she had taken refuge, looking with wondering eyes from one to the other and speaking only the one sentence over and over again. I didn't speak a word, not a word at all. Did I, Grandpa? Not a word, said Grandpa, hugging his darling close to his heart. You did the best you knew how, and that is what can't be said of everybody. They told you you mustn't make speeches and you remembered it. Next time maybe they will think to teach you that you mustn't take walks. Meantime, see if we all succeeded in doing as well as she did, behaving the best we know how. Dear Grandpa, there never was a time when he had not a shielding word for those who intended right. CHAPTER III. MAKING BELIEVE It was a summer morning, bright and clear, but yet it was cold. The sun was just peeping up behind the hills at our back door, not awake enough yet to warm the great earth that was waiting for him. Things had been a stir at grandpa's for some time, so had they been at the other house. The other house, meaning Mini's home at the upper end of the garden. Grandma had gone very early to the other house for there was a journey in prospect. A very early start was to be taken, and somehow no one in our family ever could get ready to do anything without grandma's help. Auntie Dool and I had been left to get the breakfast, and she rattled the fire until the tea kettle puffed, and the coffee bubbled, and the potatoes in the spider's cyst. Then, bidding me see that things didn't boil over or burn, she threw her apron over her head and ran up the hill, just where I wanted to go. I hadn't seen my darling in twelve hours, and wished that people didn't have to eat breakfasts when they were going away, or that I didn't have to get them, or something. Pretty soon Auntie Dool came down the hill faster than she had gone up and burst in at the kitchen door. They want you to come up and see if you can do anything with Mini. She said, as she jerked the bubbling coffee pot to the corner of the stove, and added, Those potatoes are burning. What creature you are to get breakfast? What is the trouble with Mini, I asked anxiously, looking around for a bonnet? Oh, she is cross. Won't let anybody touch her. It is almost time for the stage, and she isn't dressed. Three minutes more I stood in her mama's room. Shall I ever forget the funny little figure that I found curled up in a great arm chair? One tiny arm and shoulder slipped out from her white nightgown, the other just ready to be slipped. Just so far had Mini's toilet progressed when the poor, sleepy darling roused to the thought that she was being dreadfully ill-treated, being waked up in the night, and picked out of her snug bed and her pretty dream. She had been told every morning for years, so she thought, that she was going away off to Auntie's house one of these days, until the truth was she didn't believe a word of it, didn't believe there was any Auntie's house, and was hardly tired of the whole story. Such a pitiful little lip as was puckered up at me, and quivering voice said, pleadingly, Auntie Belle will take Mini! She is tired and sleepy and cold! I sat down in a low chair, and gathered the queer little bundle into my big house apron, and, without a word of dressing, I began to tell a story about a wonderful kitten with brown tail and white feet, and some way the kitten could only be found at Auntie's house. Very soon I began to bathe the pretty little limbs and take away the ugly, chilled feeling with some vigorous robbing. Then, before she knew it, the ridiculous little skirts were going on, the kitten's story continuing with increased interest. As I settled the dainty linen suit into place, my small lady roused to consciousness. Why, Auntie, you are putting on my traveling dress! Of course I am, darling! Don't I tell you that you are going to travel? She peeped out at the other room with shining eyes. And Mama is all dressed up, she said eagerly, and Papa has his duster coat on, and the big trunk is packed! Why, we're really truly going! Why, I'm so delighted! Then came Auntie Duel to get a glimpse of her darling. Oh! she said, as the trim little vision in braided linen suit and brown traveling boots caught her eye. Dear me, you look so very nice! I'm afraid all the little boys will fall in love with you. Fall where? asked our astonished little maiden. This was new language for her. Instead of explaining, we all laughed at the amazed look in her eyes. She put her head on one side and thought. Then a radiant smile broke over her face, and she said eagerly, Auntie Duel, do you mean they will love me? Auntie nodded, and then Minnie clapped her bits of hands together and said, Oh! why, won't that be ever so nice? Which sentence she seemed to consider the height of proper language. Meantime Grandpa had come up, and at this point he took the small lady in his arms, saying, as he stood her on the center table, to shake out her skirts, Little woman, did you ever hear of an old saying with five words in it? Handsome is that handsome does. How does that mean, Grandpa? the little woman asked, tilting her head on one side like a canary bird. It means that even the little boys, silly beings though they often are, will not love anybody who doesn't act very nice, no matter how pretty they look. You may be dressed in your nicest, and if you are cross or selfish or sullen, nobody will love you. Will you always remember that? Um! said Minnie. I don't know that that is quite the way to spell it, but it is as near as I can get to the word that she was fond of using instead of yes, sir. Um! remember it ever, always! Which was another sentence of her own making, which she seemed to think was very strong language. Grandpa laughed. See that you do. He said, in a tone which said, I presume you will forget all about it in an hour. Now give me ten kisses, and I'll carry you down to get some breakfast. The kisses were given with a will, many a loving hug and pat thrown into the bargain. Minnie loved her grandpa much dearly. So she said, and truly she had reason. God never gave a better grandpa to any of his little ones than he gave to her. For the benefit of those who would like to know some things that she did while on her journey, I will copy a letter from her mama. Dear grandma, we reached here safely last evening. Minnie did not seem tired at all, and is as fresh as a bird this morning. She made a great many friends on the cars. People came to borrow her every little while, and I could hear them laughing at what she said. I suspect she told some remarkable stories. I heard one of them. A gentleman sitting before us asked her to come and sit with him, and she went promptly enough. Can't you come home with me and be my little girl? He asked her. I don't know, she said, putting her head on one side as if she were thinking about it. Have you any mama there for me? No, he said, laughing and blushing. But I think I could hunt one up. Oh, she said loftily. Well, mine is hunted up, you see. I wouldn't have to wait for her. After he got done laughing at that, he said, I've got an old yellow cat at home and two cunning little white kittens. I don't believe you have any at your house. Oh, yes, I have, she said promptly. I've got an old cat and five little cunning kittens. They are brown and white and gray, and oh, all colors. Indeed, he said, that is rather ahead of me. What can your kittens do? Oh, play with their tails, you know, and run after a ball and lots of things. Do you put them in the barn to sleep? Oh, no, she said with a horrified air. No, indeed, not at all. I've got a little crib for them and little sheets and pillows and everything. And I rock them to sleep in my arms every night. They've got cunning little white nightgowns and nightcaps with Laysan. Mama made them. Don't you think he must have thought her mama was an idiot? He seemed wonderfully amused and kept asking questions. Among others, do they sleep well all night? Well, yes, Minnie said, most always, only one night they were sick, every one of them. And I had to sit up with them all night. And Mama gave them Akinite and Belladonna every two hours, and they got better. He laughed so hard that he shook the seat. But he went on with his questions. What in the world made them sick, do you think? Oh, said the ridiculous little mouse. We don't know. But we most expected they had been eating Tommy toes and pillar cats and flutterbys for their supper. Eating what? He asked in great astonishment. At this point I, who had been listening in a kind of maze, thought it quite time to interfere. Why, many, many, I said, leaning forward. What dreadful nonsense are you telling the gentlemen? Why, mama, she said, turning her wondering little face to me. I'm only making believe you know. I took her in my lap and we tried to have a very grave talk. Do you believe I could make the queer little mouse understand that she had done wrong in telling such stories? They didn't mean to be stories, mama, she said again and again. I was only playing that I had five kittens and put them in a crib to sleep. I would if I had any. I think it would be real nice, don't you? But, darling, I said, the man didn't know you were playing. He thinks you really have five kitties. But, mama, I know I was playing. I know it isn't true. And I could not make her understand. Darling, I said, see here, suppose I should write to grandpa like this. Minnie is very sick. I had to sit up with her all night. I gave her medicine every two hours. Would it be true? No, ma'am, she said promptly. But suppose I wrote to him the next day and said, I was only playing that Minnie was sick. She isn't sick at all. Would that make it all right? Do you think grandpa would say we had done right to make them all so much sorrow and trouble just for play? She thought a minute. Then she said, But, mama, the man didn't love my kitties. He didn't care whether they were sick or not. Mama, I don't think I made him any trouble. I hope you can see how useful my illustration was. After a good deal more talk, I either partly convinced her or else she thought she would put an end to the whole matter. For she suddenly leaned forward and said, in a clear ringing voice, Man, man, I was only making believe, you know, I haven't got any kitties. Are your kitties make believe ones too? I never had any, and they sleep in the barn. I mean, they would if I had any. Only we haven't got a barn, and I didn't mean to tell you stories. I was just playing, and you mustn't ever tell stories ever at all. It's wicked, and Jesus won't love you a bit if you do. You don't ever do it, do you? By this time, everybody around us was laughing. Is it possible, the gentleman asked me, that the child hasn't any kitten? Never had one in her life, I told him, except her play-kittens, which certainly seemed as real to her as if they were alive. I should think so, he said. She certainly has a vivid imagination. What in the world does she mean about their eating tommy-toes and pillar cats? Then I had to tell him that story, over which he laughed as though he might have a little one at home whose queer doings had taught him to be amused with the children. This is only one of the many adventures that your darling had. I was thankful when I had herself and her absurd little tongue safe within the walls of Uncle Charlie's house. It knew the taste of good things and longed after them, and her pretty little tongue coaxed for them in a way that was heart rending to refuse. But there were so many things that she could not eat, and no sooner was an article set down to that long list of things that made many sick than her perverse little stomach was seized with a desire for that thing and nothing else. One of the dainties that she longed for was currens, and currens she could not eat. All sorts of devices were resorted to to save the plaintive little face from growing sad over the sight of the forbidden fruit. Anti-dual particularly was very wise in planning so that the baby might live in a perpetual state of forgetfulness over its existence, but it wasn't always easy, for her eyes were very bright and watchful. On a certain summer afternoon, when the little lady was down at Grandpa's visiting, as it drew toward tea-time, Anti-dual stole away, bowl in hand, to pick some currens for tea. Many was supposed to be going home before tea-time, so her heart was not to be disturbed by the sight of them. Trot trot went the little feet towards the kitchen door, and just as Anti-dual's son Bonnet was vanishing through the door, it was checked by a shrill voice. Anti-dual, where is you going? Oh! said Anti, hesitatingly. To China, maybe. Many didn't know where China was, but she had faith in her Anti, and, forot she knew, China might be just outside the garden gate. So she accepted the statement and went on. Well, what is you going to do with that bowl when you get to Sina? Oh, dear me! Anti said, growing puzzled. Pick butterflies and caterpillars, maybe. For tea! said Many, her eyes opening wide with startled horror. I, I guess so, do you want some? Away flew Many with her astonishing piece of news, through the kitchen, through the sitting-room, straight into her place of safety, Grandma's arms. Her cheeks aglow, her voice trembling with excitement. Oh, Grandma! Grandma! Anti-dual has gone away to Sina, to pick a bowl full of flutterbys and pillar-cats for tea. Do people eat them, Grandma? Meantime, Anti-dual, chuckling over the success of her surprising statement, escaped to the garden with her bowl. This story was told to Grandpa at the tea-table after Many had gone home, with many descriptions of her shocked tones and looks, and much laughter. Only Grandpa looked grave. When the laugh was over, he said to Anti-dual, How many years do you suppose it will be before Many will discover that you haven't told her the truth? The truth! said Anti in surprise. Why, of course it wasn't truth. I was only in fun, you know, whoever supposed that the absurd little monkey would believe it. And she laughed again at the thought. But you see, she did believe it, Grandpa said. Believed it because you told it to her. She has great faith in your word, you see. I would be very careful not to give that faith a shock if I were you. Why, dear me! Anti said with puzzled face. I never thought about its being anything serious. Don't you think it is right to say anything in fun to a child? I don't think it is right to say anything but the truth to any one. Grandpa said, emphatically, least of all, to a child. Under the impulse of this talk, Anti took pains to explain to Many with great care that China was not out under the apple-tree, but a great way off, that people did not eat pillar-cats and flutter-bys, and that, in short, she was only making believe in what she told her. Many listened attentively, seemed to take in the idea and be satisfied. It was not long afterward that the letter came from her mama about which I told you last week. After we had read it and laughed over it, Grandpa turned suddenly to Anti-dual and asked, Do you see the fruit of your own planting? Many learned to make believe out under the current bushes, didn't she? We all took that home for a lesson, and after that tried to speak the exact truth to the queer little girl, and yet her ideas of things became very much mixed. For instance, she was very fond of dogs, little curly, blink-eyed creatures that waddled along the street, seeking for things to bark at. She knew I could hardly endure the sight of them, and she was very fond of me and very anxious to secure my approval of everything that she said and did. One glowing summer day we took a walk. She, in spotless white and charming silver-buckled slippers. As we turned down Fulton Street, there came along one of those snarly wretches known as poodle dogs. Many was in a flutter of delight. She clapped her hands and called after him, Doggy, dear Doggy, wait a minute till I see you better! He trotted on just ahead of us, and she expressed her satisfaction in every possible way. She even appealed to me to know if he wasn't a darling. I said, I guess so, in an absent sort of way, and in reply to other exclamations of pleasure gave sometimes a half-answer, sometimes silence, until suddenly she turned from the dog and looked up into my face. I suppose I looked grave, for my thoughts were miles away from there, and I was puzzled and troubled about some bit of business that did not want to go right. Poor Mini thought my sober face was all owing to her raptures over his dog-ship. Instantly she was her dignified little self, trying to make me understand that her heart was all right. I don't love him a bit, Auntie Bell! she said in a grave earnest way that she had. Not a single bit at all. No indeed. Only he has got such a little cunning tale! Oh, how Grandpa laughed over that when I told him about it! Laughed until he had to get out his handkerchief and wipe away the tears. The world is full of just such people, he said afterward. I meet them every day of my life. They don't care for this fashion or that amusement, only they have got such little cunning tales. The saying passed into a proverb with our family, especially with Grandpa. Whenever he heard anyone trying to make a foolish apology for something that they wanted to do or somewhere they wanted to go, while they didn't want to have the name of caring for such things, he would be sure to say, There's another dog that has a little cunning tale. It is queer what a fashion people have for telling little bits of people what is not quite true and of telling them to do ridiculous things that you don't mean them to do. These were things that, as you have seen, Grandpa particularly disliked. Yet so natural does it seem to be to indulge in them that once he was caught in just that way himself. They were going to New York, Papa and Mama in Minnie, and the small lady, all in a flutter of delight, was getting bits of errands to do for each of us, something nice that she was going to buy us, a collar for Grandma, a waffle for anti-dual, a pencil for me, and, What for Grandpa? she asked, staying her dancing feet before him and speaking gleefully. The carriage was at the door, everybody was waiting. What should Grandpa say? Oh, he said hastily, a cigar, I guess. Such a strange thing for Grandpa to choose, who never touched a cigar and didn't like to have anyone else touch them. Everybody laughed, understanding that for once in his life even Grandpa was making believe, and everybody forgot that Minnie was an earnest-hearted little woman who believed that people said what they meant and meant what they said. One day she went, dressed in her prettiest, downtown, for a promenade with Cousin Ed. Now Cousin Ed was a young gentleman who had much heart and much money, and the ways in which he filled Minnie's heart with comfort cannot be told here. It would take too much room. The little maiden chose this particular time in which to do her shopping, and besides the collar and waffle and pencil, what was Papa's bewilderment to find stored among his freight a large-sized box of choice Havana cigars? Gunpowder or brandy casks couldn't have surprised him more, but Minnie was wisdom and gravity combined. Why, Papa, I know all about it. It is my present for Grandpa. Cousin Ed bought it. My cigar, you know. Grandpa sent for it. I told Cousin Ed so, and he said one wouldn't last long, and he would get the man to put in some more. Oh, my! What a many! I didn't think there would be such a many as that. Won't Grandpa be pleased? Won't Grandpa be dumbfounded, said Papa, taking in the idea and laughing loud and long. Wicked Cousin Ed knew perfectly well that the Grandpa at home hated the whole idea of cigars and all their relations, though innocent little Minnie did not. Serves me right, said Grandpa, after he could speak for laughing over his queer present. Serves me just right. I had no business to tell the baby to bring me one. Only a little while since I lectured some of you about that very thing, too. It only goes to show how determined we are that the pure-hearted little things shall grow to believe that everybody is making believe. Then he stooped and gathered the waiting little woman into his arms. Aren't you pleased, Grandpa? She said, with a little quiver of the lips. Minnie thought you would be. Yes, he said, pressing loving kisses on her lips. Grandpa is pleased with his little girl. She is a good, honest little woman. She does just as she promises to do, and is in real earnest about it all. Minnie must do so always, and then she will be an honest, big woman one of these days. And as for Grandpa, he will try to help you after this every time. Dear Grandpa, there isn't a memory of Minnie's young life that is not woven in with sweet thoughts about that precious, wise-hearted, faithful friend who helped her every time. CHAPTER V. SHOWERS AND SUNSHINE. Minnie spent one very happy day in packing her trunk. That queer little trunk. I wish you could have seen it. It was the shape and color of Papa's. Had a lock and key, and leather strap, everything complete. But it was so little and cunning that even Minnie could drag it around by the handle after it was packed. While it was locked and strapped and marked, a card tacked on the end, like Papa's, with Minnie's full name and place of residence. Was she going on a journey? Bless your heart, no! She was going down the garden walk to grand-pas to spend a week, for Papa and Mama were going to Buffalo. Such a time as we had getting that trunk packed to her satisfaction. She couldn't have been more particular if she had been a young lady getting ready for Saratoga or Long Branch. At last everything was ready, and we stood on the steps, watching Papa and Mama start. Minnie's cheeks were pretty red. There were two tears in her eyes, and a hard lump in her throat. She kept swallowing and swallowing, and trying hard not to cry. And she didn't, for just at that happy moment, who would drive up but grand-pas in the big wagon and with the shop boy beside him? Out they both jumped. Is this trunk ready? asked grand-pas, with a very business-like air. Then they both took hold, grand-pas at one end, and the boy at the other, exactly as the carmen had just done with Papa's. And Minnie, very much interested, watched them place it in the wagon, and in giving directions and cautions as Papa had done, forgot to cry. For all that, it was a very sober little body who took hold of my hand a few minutes afterward, and started on her journey down the garden. She gave me some good advice on the way. Auntie Belle, you must say your prayers every night and morning, always, no matter if your Mama is away. Because God isn't away, you know. He never packs his trunk and goes a journey. And you needn't stop saying them because your Mama's knee is gone away, because Grandma's knee is just as good. But I haven't any Grandma, said wicked I, willing to see what the sober little brain would answer. My Grandma went to Heaven years ago. What can I do in such a case? Why, there's grand-pas! she said eagerly. Oh, no, you haven't got any grand-pas either. Poor Auntie Belle. No grand-pas nor grand-pas. What will you do? Well, I know you can go right straight to God's knee then. That will do just as well, because He never will die and go to Heaven. He always stays. Then the advice went on. And you must be a good girl when your Mama is away and do just what she would like, same as if she could see you, because God sees you all the time, you know, in the dark night and all. And He won't like it if you don't please your Mama. He said so. I received this kind advice very soberly, and I hope it did me good. It is certain that in my later days I have had a good deal of that thing given me that was neither so sensible nor so gently given as this. All through the long summer day, Minnie was brave and bright. She took her nap on Grandma's bed instead of Mama's, where she had always been, before she went to walk with me, and shut her eyes and talked very fast when she passed Papa's office. She went through with the undressing forbid at night without a misgiving, popped her head into her pretty nightgown, and came up the other side of it with a chuckle of pleasure. She even knelt down and folded her sweet hands and murmured her, Now I lay me, even to the, Bless dear Papa and dear Mama, and take good care of them all night, for Jesus' sake, amen, without a single tear. Her womanly little heart had taken in the mother's teaching. Grandma's knee will do just as well. It was not until the clothes had been folded away in a nice pile, ready for mourning, and the boots and stockings laid beside them by the neat little maiden herself, that, as she sat on Grandma's knee, and anti-dual, brought the brimming glass of cold water that was always her last thing before eyes go shut. A great sense of her loss and her loneliness suddenly rolled over her, and with one pitiful wail that touches my heart to think of even today, she sobbed out, Why can't my Mama hold it? And burying her head on Grandma's neck, she cried as if her little heart was entirely broken. What a time we had of it then! How we all tried to comfort her at once! How anti-dual sputtered in indignation! When I have a baby, I won't go to New York nor anywhere else and leave her! How Grandma snuggled her and kissed her and whispered sweet little words in her ear! How at last Grandpa, walking the floor, grieved to the heart with her heavy sobs, said suddenly, I wonder where the lady is that that trunk belongs to. What trunk? asked Grandma. Why a trunk that I brought in my big wagon today? They said there was a young lady coming to spend a week with us, and I thought we were going to have some pleasant times. I don't see why she didn't come. I'm disappointed. The wailing in Grandma's neck suddenly stopped. Minnie sat up straight, wiped her red eyes on her nightgown, then said earnestly, Why, she did come, Papa. I'm the young lady. You, said Grandpa, stopping in his walk and looking down at her. It can't be. Aren't you the child I heard crying? Young ladies don't cry when they go to visit their friends. They are glad to go visiting, and they have a real nice time. There must be some mistake. No, said Minnie positively. I'm the young lady, and I don't cry either. Not a bit at all. No indeed. And her eyes shone like two stars. Not another cry did we hear from Minnie, though she stayed with us a week and three days. No young lady could have behaved more properly, or enjoyed herself more thoroughly than did she, and a nice time we had. She brought her kitten with her. It deserves telling about. It was a pretty brown thing as far as kittens go, though I'm no lover of the biting, scratching little wretches. But oh, how Minnie loved hers! And Grandpa didn't. In fact, I hardly ever knew anyone who had such a dislike for cats as Grandpa had. We never kept any, and he never allowed one to come inside the garden gate if he could help it. He didn't want Minnie to have one, and for a long time her mama wouldn't allow it. But, dear me, how are you going to keep kittens away from children or children away from kittens in this world? There's my ray half wild at the sight of one. Well, Minnie was just as bad, and a kitten she got somehow, we hardly know how, and she brought it with her down to Grandpa's. We all agreed that it must be kept out of Grandpa's way. It would never do to annoy him with the sight and sound of it. So it was carefully put away before business hours were over and Grandpa at leisure. But one evening we left the woodhouse door open for about two minutes, and in Popped Kitty, hiding herself under the lounge until we had all forgotten her and were in the sitting room, Grandpa with his glasses and the evening paper. Then she walked in, and of all the places in the world to choose, she sidled up to Grandpa, rubbing against his slippers and filling the room with that horrid purr that is so particularly disagreeable to people who dislike cats. Minnie's face was a study then. She slid down from my arms and went softly and swiftly around to Grandpa's knee, faithful to her little brown disobedient darling, even while she trembled for it. Not that she was afraid Grandpa would hurt it, dear me, no. Grandpa never really hurt anything. But he would be almost certain to jump and say that heart-rending, scat, and more than likely he would give it a gentle push with the toe of his slipper to help it along. And it seemed to Minnie as if any of these things would just about break her heart. So she stood watching at Grandpa's knee, saying not a word. Once she tried to take up the naughty kitten, but it drew away from her and actually mewed quite loud. It seemed bent on its own destruction. Just then Grandpa noticed it. He dropped his paper, leaned forward and looked, first at Minnie, then at the kitten. Then he said in a tone as gentle as Minnie's own, poor pussy. Could we believe our eyes? What did he do next but reach down and put Minnie on one knee and the kitten on the other? Well, well, well, said Grandma, growing more earnest over each word, wonders will never end. If there you don't sit holding a kitten, what next? Grandpa stroked the brown-headed darling with his right hand and patted the kitty with his left, as he said, she is a young lady visiting us, you know, we must be very polite to company. There was a change in the order of things after that. Kitty came and went freely, undisturbed by anybody, least of all by Grandpa. The little maiden even dumped it into his arms to hold whenever she wanted to feel very safe about it. I never could discover that Grandpa grew very fond of other cats. He scattered them as promptly as before whenever they appeared on the wrong side of his fence. But that particular little brown kitten was Minnie's darling, and Minnie was Grandpa's darling. I mean that she shed no tears over her father's and mother's absence. She had her trials, however. One warm afternoon I found her sitting on her low stool just in the shadow of Grandma's door, her wee white apron doing duty to catch the tears that were slowly dropping one by one from the tip of her bit of a nose. In surprise and dismay I picked her up and carried her out to the privacy of the corner sofa to tell me what was the matter. Little by little, between heavy sobs and several tears, the sad story was told. She had been watching Grandma take out her twosies and rub them and put them in a tumbler. And she went to the kitchen and got another tumbler and was going to put her twosies in it, and they wouldn't come out. They stuck just as fast, though she pulled and pulled. She even took the sharp pointed little scissors to them and made the LUD come. But the teeth wouldn't stir at all. She didn't think they were made like Grandma's at all. Something was wrong about them. Grandma didn't have a bit of trouble. Hers slipped out just as easy. Now wasn't that trouble? Real genuine trouble too, Grandpa said when we told him. You needn't laugh about it. It is as real to her as most of our trials are to us. But the idea of crying because her little pearls of teeth are her own, instead of being false ones put on a plate, said Grandma. Whoever heard the like, just as if she wasn't enough sight better off with them fastened in tight. I, said Grandpa, but the thing is to make her believe it. I suspect you and I are better off this minute without something that we think we want than we would be if we had it. Only how are we going to be convinced of it? Whoever undertook it would have as hard work as Auntie did trying to prove that real teeth were better than false ones. And I don't suppose you succeeded, he said, turning to me. No, said I thoughtfully. I don't believe I did. The other day that same mini, a tall slip of a girl, with nothing about her like the mini of babyhood except her brown eyes, walked into my house, her strap of schoolbooks on her shoulder, and a very dismal look on her face. Auntie Bell, she said, only think I have seventeen teeth that will need to be filled. And the dentist said he didn't believe they were any of them worth filling. He said he shouldn't wonder if I should have to have false teeth before long. Won't that be horrid, taking out teeth and putting them in? Ah! Aha! said I. People change their opinions sometimes. Then I told her the story of the little maiden behind the door weeping her apron full of tears. Do you know what she said? She laughed merrily, then she said, Oh, what a little nanny! Oh, dear me, I feel real bad about my teeth. Auntie Bell, I'm wiser than I was then. And as she went away swinging her strap, I wondered what she would say about herself and her wisdom after ten years more were added to her life. Once in a while there came a day when the very spirit of mischief seemed to enter into many. At those times she trotted from one delicious bit of wickedness to another, not seeming quite certain which was the funniest. Mama was sick and lay on the lounge trying to keep still. I reigned as mistress of the house with occasional visits from Grandma to see that all went well. It was one of many's mischief days. She had been through with the usual order, tipping over water-pitchers and sending shoes in swimming. Twice we had rescued her from an open razor, and once arrived in time to shut the door to the cistern before misery came through that. I should think you would be sick, I said despairingly, to Mama toward the middle of the afternoon. The wonder is that you are alive. Why, my feet actually ache running after that child. Does she always act like this? Well, said Mama, turning the pillow and trying to find a cool spot for her head. I don't think she uses a great deal of wisdom over the day's work at any time, but she has been unusually industrious and bewildering today, I think. What is she doing now? Oh, she is quiet for once in her life. I have given her a bar of soap and a paper of tax, and she is supposed to be building a fence around Grandpa's barn. Then we went to talking, and the small lady was forgotten for the space of ten minutes. The utmost quiet reigned in the bedroom where she was at work. Her mother had just said, I think you would better look after Minnie. I never knew her to be so still so long without being in mischief. When we heard the little voice exclaim in a choked sort of way, Massey Sakes, how it smells! Massey Sakes was a word that she had caught from someone and only used it in times of great excitement. Smells was a word that she had just succeeded in pronouncing, and she didn't quite pronounce it yet, you see. What can she be about? said Mama, and I went to see. On the floor behind the bedroom door sat my little lady, her fence but half built around the cake of soap, her toothbrush hammer laying idle by her side, while she mopped her face and rubbed her dripping head with a handkerchief that was soaked through and through with benzine. Minnie, I said. Oh, Minnie, what have you been doing now? Spelling of Mama's fumory, she said innocently, and I wet my face with it to make me cool, you know, and I wet my hair with it just as Mama does when she combs it. Only I most guess I got too much on, and it doesn't smell quite as nice as Mama's other bottle did. I shouldn't think it did, I said, in utter dismay. I'm sure I don't know what in the world to do with you. What I had to do was to get warm water and soap, and scrub and soak and brush the poor ill-used skin and head and hair, trying to get off a little of the dreadful perfume. Then the business of dressing had all to be gone through with for the third time that day, for once she had been in the ink and once in the water. Finally, after an hour of hard work, a meek little maiden with very damp hair plastered down over her head and with a faint odor still of the horrible benzine all about her, went on tiptoe to tell poor, sick Mama how sorry she was for the seventeenth piece of mischief. Didn't you see how badly it smelled? asked Mama as they talked the matter over. Yes, um, she said, it smelled dreadfully much, but Mama I thought it was fashionable to smell that way, so I thought I would have to stand it. Why do you stretch your hair back in that way? I asked Mini the other day when she came in from school with her hair drawn back from her temples and fastened firmly at the neck. It looks very uncomfortable. Oh, it isn't, she said briskly. I like it that way. They all wear their hair so nowadays, you know. You are not quite as honest as you were at three years old or less, I told her. Then you were willing to own that you thought the smell was dreadfully much, but because it was fashionable you thought you could stand it. Now you have reached the point when you are not only willing to stand it, but to make believe that it is very nice. Mini laughed a little, but she questioned me closely about the benzine story, and the next day she came in with her hair arranged in loose, graceful waves, though stretching back from the roots was still fashionable. She is a thoughtful young miss sometimes. Ten minutes of penitence in the little rocking chair beside Mama's lounge, and then Mini begged to go back to her tack fence. I hope you haven't given the child a hammer, Mama said, a new wrinkle of dismay in her face. Nothing more dreadful than a toothbrush, I told her, and she said with a laugh, a toothbrush she will be using it on her teeth next. Luckless sentence, but for that the young lady might not have thought of her next bit of work. Grandma had come in, and I was stirring a Johnny cake for tea and talking with her when an exclamation of dismay from the bedroom sent me there. It tipped, said Mini, looking up with startled face. I held it just as tight, but it tipped itself and spilled all over. It is Mama's odent, you know. I poured it into the wash bowl and brushed my tusses all clean, and I was going to pour it back into the bottle for next time, but it wouldn't pour. It just spilled all over, and my apen is just as wet. I should think so, I said in disgust. Whatever possessed you to meddle with the soza don't. Why, I wanted to brush my tusses, she said earnestly. Mama does you know, and it just dropped so slow out of the bottle I thought I'd empty it out and put it all back again, but it wouldn't go. The dressing up had to be gone through with again, for the odent had gone through the dress, even wetting her little flannel shirt. She was very meek and quiet during the dressing. She always was after any special piece of mischief. Then she took my hand and walked slowly and solemnly out to Mama, her eyes on her shoes, the hem of her apron being twisted into a rope by the other hand. She ought to be put in the bedroom in her chair and have the door shut, and stay there until she could be a good girl. Was Grandma's severe sentence, after being told of the day's trials? So I tramped the ween maiden back to the bedroom, lifted her into her little rocking chair, and tied her in with a green cord, at which she complained because her dress was red, and red and green did not look well together, which bit of conceit I shall have to confess she learned from me. I went out and left her alone, but I left the door open, my heart not being sufficiently hard to shut her in. It might have been ten minutes afterward that a pitiful little voice, with a quiver of trouble in every note, called out, Auntie Belle, why don't you shut the door? Why don't I what? I asked, coming to the doorway. Why don't you shut the door? Grandma said shut me up, and you have left the door wide open. There was a great tear rolling slowly down each cheek, and her eyes were red as if more tears had fallen. Her bits of hands were meekly folded, and her pale little face was very sad. Do you want the door shut? I said. She shook her head. I don't want to be in here at all, she said, putting strong emphasis on the want. But it is punishment, you know. She made that word out of punishment, and Grandma said shut the door, you ought to shut it. Thus reminded of my duty, I did shut the door, but I shut myself in and kissed away those two tears, and finished the tack fence, and so beguiled the time of exile that she told her Mama that Grandma's punish-niff was nice when Auntie Belle was in it. By and by came Grandpa, and to him was told the story of Minnie's day of mischief. He took the little culprit on his knee, and held her hands in his, while he told her that he had a little peace for her to teach Mama that evening at bedtime, and over and over she repeated the two lines, clasping her two hands together as she said the word hands. Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do. Why must I learn it? Mama asked in a puzzled tone, after Minnie had conquered the lines and gone about her work. Nearly always Grandpa's words had hidden meanings in them, and Mama was searching for hers. Why must I learn it? The child's hands are not to blame for being idle, he said gravely. It is your business to keep them busy. If you fail to do it, don't complain of Satan for coming to her aid. But Father, I said, feeling that on this particular day it had been my business, I did give her soap and tax, and she left them and went in search of something that suited her better. Yes, he said, still speaking gravely. You have given her one thing to work with, and expected her to be busy with it all the afternoon. Now Satan knows enough to give her variety. But Father, it is utterly impossible to keep her interested in her playthings all the time. I've tried it, and it can't be done. The Mama raised herself on one elbow and spoke eagerly. She seemed astonished to think that she was mixed up in the mischief. The grandpa still kept a perfectly grave face, as he answered, Satan it seems is able to do it. I am safe in saying that the child has been very much interested in everything that she has done this afternoon. I don't doubt but that Satan is smarter than you. But if she were my daughter, I should make a pretty hard fight with him as to which should find work for her hands, even while they were very little. You do have such queer ideas, murmured Mama as she sank back on her pillow, but she studied that idea a good deal after that. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 of Grandpa's Darlings by Pansy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Chapter 7 Going Shopping You can't think what pretty ways of coaxing Minnie had. She didn't tease nor whimper nor whine, but right into the midst of your talk perhaps would come a pair of soft arms about your neck and sweet little kisses would be laid gently on your cheek, on your nose, on your chin, while the pleading eyes besought you for some favor that you had almost refused, and the tongue said never a word. She and Mama had come down the hill to have an after-dinner chat with Grandma and the rest of us. Papa had come as far as the door had been kissed by his darling eleven-seven times, her warmest token of love, and had gone to his office. The small lady stood on a low stool and her pretty rosy lips were temptingly near to Mama's ear, but she did not whisper she only kissed. That child is coaxing for something, I know, said Grandma, breaking into the midst of a sentence. What is it she wants? She wants some nuts, said Mama, laughing to think how plainly Grandma understood her darling's pretty ways. I have almost promised her some for several days, but Minnie, don't you see there is no one to go with you after any? Several days is a good while for a child like her to wait, said Grandma, somewhat grimly. I know it is, but I always forget it when I am down street. Auntie Bell, I don't suppose you want to take her down now, do you? It is too warm to think of doing that or anything else that makes it necessary to move, said I, lazily. Auntie Duel had a brilliant thought just then. Why don't you let her go by herself? It is only around the corner, and she knows the way as well as you do. Fiddlesticks, said Grandma, that baby, though to be sure, she added reflectively, you went of errands for me at her age. Meantime Minnie's face was a glow with delight, and her tongue forgot its silence. Do let me, she said eagerly. Do let Minnie, she knows just where to go. Well, said Mama, amused at the idea of making her baby useful. You may go. Get your hat and take your little basket on your arm. You may get a pint. Here is the money. A pint. Can you remember? Oh, remember, of course she could. She was all in a world full of pleasure and kissed Auntie Duel three times, even in her haste, because she had the delightful thought. From door to window we watched the wee white-robed maidens start out into the world for the first time alone. I am afraid she will get run over, said Grandma. Why, she doesn't have to cross the street, said Mama. It is just around the corner, but if she meets a large dog she will be afraid. Then Auntie Duel, who had been at the bottom of the whole proceeding, suddenly lost faith in her plan and turned eagerly to me. You are all dressed. Suppose you run around the corner and keep an eye on her. You needn't let her see you. What a very brilliant brain you have this afternoon! I said, sleepily, but I hunted my hat in haste and went, and this is the way I came to know about the funny thing that happened. Through the crowd of men and boys, cigar smokers and tobacco spitters and the like, who stood around the corner, Mini quietly picked her way, eye following at a safe distance, until she went slowly past the three large stores, looking earnestly up at the windows, and at the fourth she dodged in, something in the window had remembered the place for her. It was a favorite store, but not a busy hour, and a dozen or more men were standing around, most of them waiting for the mail that was being distributed in the post office next door. In the midst of this unknown crowd stood Mini, a shy, sweet little speck. She had never been among strangers before without having a tight hold of some friendly hand. I stepped just inside, behind the shadow of a box, and watched. The buzz of tongues was suddenly checked, and one large, rough man said, Hello, here is an angel right in our midst. She isn't an angel, said another, she is a fairy. Hey, little fairy queen, where is your train? Gravely sweet and dignified stood Mini, a good deal startled, very much wondering, but not afraid. Nobody ever heard her. She hadn't the least idea that anybody ever would. One of the clerks who knew her now came forward and asked her errand. On him Mini bestowed a shy, happy smile. It was very pleasant to have found a friend. The store was very still while she earnestly told what she wanted. A pint of peekers. A pint of what, said the astonished clerk, and the lookers on laughed loud and long, but the clear voice steadily repeated its errand. A pint of peekers. Well, said the clerk, I declare I muddled. We've got almost everything in our line that has ever been heard of, but this is the first time that a pint of peekers has ever been called for. What in the world can she mean? Are you sure, child, that you have got it right? Yes, she was sure. Mini always was sure of everything. Ask her to describe them, suggested one man, and the clerk, catching at the idea, asked what they looked like. Poor Mini blushed over this. They were brown, she said, and speckled a little, and all smooth and pretty. Then they all laughed again, and I, behind my big box, laughed too, and wondered which was the greater dunce. Mini, for not telling him that they were nuts, or he, for not asking whether peekers were to eat or drink or wear or what. Well, said the puzzled clerk at last, my small lady, I guess you will have to go home and tell your mama that we don't keep peekers. But at this Mini shook her brown head very decidedly. That would be a story, she said gravely. You do, for I've seen him right here in your store lots of times. Oh-ho, you have. If that's so, you can tell when you see them again, I presume. Well, now young lady, I'll tell you what we'll do. You and I will take a walk, you may walk on the counter, and I'll walk behind it, and we'll look into every box and drawer and keg in this store until we find peekers. Will that do? Mini nodded gravely, and he carried her in triumph to the further counter, the men following to see the fun. Very busily she began to look up and down the rows of shelves and into drawers, as one after another was opened for her inspection. Presently the clerk bethought himself to ask another question. Where do we get them from when you come to buy them? A way down there out of a drawer, said Mini confidently, pointing with her small finger to the furthest end of the long store. Then what a chorus of laughter there was. Why in the world didn't you tell me that before? said the laughing clerk. Then we wouldn't have wasted our time in looking up here. You didn't ask me, said Mini, sweetly and simply. I thought maybe you kept them in lots more places. Sure enough, said the laughing lookers on, you thought he knew his own business without you teaching him, didn't you? Then they went down to the lower end of the store, and I, coming out of my retreat, followed behind the others. The clerks knew me very well and smiled and bowed, enjoying the fun. The only one of them who didn't see me was the one who was so industriously waiting on Mini. It was very funny to see her. Her face, so quiet and grave, began to wear a very anxious look. She had been a long time away, perhaps she would have to go home without her treasures after all. She could not point out the drawer, so one after another was opened, until suddenly the sober look on her face gave way to one of great delight, and she said in a shrill little voice that rang through the store. There, there they are, peekers, ever so many of them, please give me a pint. Peacons, as I live, said the astonished clerk, what a dumbhead I was not to think of them. Things always do seem so clear in plain, you know, after you have been told all about them. Well, she carried home the pint of peekers in triumph, and we all shared them. In the evening I had been telling the story over to Grandpa, especially dwelling on thee, to me, very funny part, that she didn't, when asked to describe them, say that they were nuts. That isn't so very funny, said Grandpa. At least it isn't very strange. Older people than she, and those who are supposed to be wiser, do queer things in that line. What do you suppose my experience has been? I have been half of this afternoon, engaged in trying to find out the road to dear field. I wanted to map it out so clearly that when I started there would be no time wasted in correcting mistakes. I went over to Judge Bryan's. I happened to know that he had had occasion to drive there several times, and I thought he would be likely to know the way. I wish I could remember the directions he gave me. I was not to turn at the Red School House nor the Stone School House, and there was a turn to the left just past the Red School House that I wasn't to take, or else I was to, and he wasn't quite certain which. And then I was to go on about three miles, or perhaps four, where it might not be more than two, and there the road forked, and I was to take the road that passed the mill about a mile ahead. I got into a complete fog, and I guess he did. The more he told me the turns not to take and the Red Houses to pass, the less I knew. His daughter Louise was moving around in the library putting up the books, and after a while she gave her attention to us. Pretty soon she said to me, Why, isn't it to dear field that you wanted to go? Yes, I said it was. Then she turned her gray eyes on her father. Well, father, said she, wouldn't it be well to tell him to follow the creek? Yes, yes, said the judge. Why, of course, certainly, child, you're right. That is the whole story in a nutshell. Just follow the creek. So you needn't laugh at Minnie's description of peekers any more. Grandpa walked back and forth through the long sitting room in silence for some minutes, then he halted again by my chair. You are a Sunday school teacher, he said earnestly. Don't you go to giving your scholars just such easily understood directions about finding Christ and Heaven as Minnie gave the clerk and Judge Brian gave me. I've seen that done before now, and it is a much sadder mistake than about pecans or the road to dear field. I wondered, then, and I have often wondered since, whether there was such a thing as a story so funny or so pointless that Minnie's grandpa and my dear father could not get some helpful lesson from it for himself and for me. After that I tried to teach my class in Sunday school the plain way to Heaven. Promises. Minnie must be very careful indeed today, not go out of the house, even to the back kitchen for a drink of water without first stopping to put her little shawl around her and something over her head. This was what her mama said to her one winter morning when she was not yet three years old. Minnie had been sick with a cold. She was better and we were very anxious to keep her so. The day was cold and stormy. Will you remember, Mama repeated, and the earnest brown eyes were lifted to her face while the grave little voice answered, Truly I will Mama every time. She is very good about keeping a promise, said Mama to me. I really think it would take considerable to make her forget. I don't think either of us had an idea of how much it would take. It was toward the middle of the afternoon that I came up the hill from our house and dodged into cousin Mary's next door to Minnie's home. There I found Minnie's Mama. With whom have you left the small lady? I asked her. Left her alone, she said, laughing. I just ran in of an errand. She promised not to leave the room where I put her unless something wonderful happened. You know she always has an if or two in her promises. Can you trust as such small promises as hers? Cousin Mary asked us with a smile that said, I shouldn't consider it safe. They are not small promises. I answered her. The body may be small, but the conscience is very much in earnest. I would trust her where I wouldn't many an older person. The words were hardly spoken when Cousin Mary called our attention to the window. Put not your trust in babies, she said, laughing. There comes yours in spite of your promise. Sure enough, there was the small sprite coming down the snowy steps, her blanket shall pin securely about her throat, and a cloud wound about her head. Mama went in haste to the door and spoke quickly not to say sharply. Mini, what are you coming out in the snow for? Mini's answer was prompt and hurried. Oh, Mama, come quick, quick! Then she dodged back into the house. One of her ifs has happened you may depend. I said as I followed the mother in haste. None too soon were either of us. A bright coal fire was glowing in the sitting room, and lest its heat and shining might fade the bright colors of the carpet, the careful lady of the house had laid down a newspaper before the grate. The coals, in settling, had lost one of their fiery company, and it had dropped on the waiting paper. When we reached the scene, not only that paper, but several others with which Mini had been amusing herself were in flames. Some very quick work had to be done to save more important things than papers. After the pitchers and pails had been put away, and the carpet mopped of the extra water that we had thrown on, we found time and breath to question and be surprised. How could it have happened? Mini don't know, said the earnest little woman. I was cutting out my pictures, and I smelled something, and I looked and the paper was all curling up and getting black. Then I ran for mama. Did you notice how she was wrapped? Mama asked, a faint smile of pride on her pale face. Indeed I did, I said. Mini, how came you to wait for your shawl and hood when the paper was on fire? The small grave face was turned slowly toward me, and great thoughtful eyes were fixed on my face as she said slowly. Why, Auntie Belle, I promised mama that I would wear them every time. And Mini considered that question entirely set at rest. Then came another question to my mind, however, and the horrible thoughts coming with it made me shiver. I am amazed, I said, that such an important child as she is didn't try to put out the fire without calling for help. Oh dear me, what might not have happened if she had? Mini, you are a sensible little girl for a three-year-old. How came you to let the burning paper alone and run for mama? Didn't you think you could put out the fire? Yes, yes, she said quietly. I knew I could, but mama said, never touch the fire, never, never. No indeed, not at all, and I promised I wouldn't. I don't see but that you can go and leave her safely enough. I said, half laughing, half crying. You have hedged her about with promises. It was during that same winter that there came a stormy day when mama and Mini were quite alone. The morning work was all done. Papa had gone to his office hours before. On the hot stove a kettle of soup bubbled and puffed. Genuine, old-fashioned scotch-barley soup it was to be, such as none but grandma and her daughters knew how to make. Mama skimmed the pot, added more boiling water, then, partly covering it, turned away and looked regretfully, first at a roll of flannel waiting to be cut, then out of the window, down the snowy path, to grandmas. If only she had that pattern of grandmas she could get the flannels nicely cut out before dinner time, but it would never do to send Mini the path was too snowy and too icy. Should she go herself and leave the small lady to be housekeeper? But there was the dreadful stove. She had always felt afraid of fire, a hundred times more afraid was she, since the time the papers burned. But she might put her so far away from the stove that there would be no danger from it. Finally she brought out the little rocking chair, Grandpa's latest gift to his darling, and set it by the south window, the furthest possible corner from the stove. Mini, she said, will you come and sit down in your little arm chair and not stir from it while Mama goes down to grandmas on an errand? Then began Mini's usual ifs. But Mama, what if the bell should ring while you are away? Couldn't I go to the door? Well, you might do that, I suppose, said Mama speaking very doubtfully. Or, no, I would rather not. Let it ring and never mind it. Mama won't be a minute away hardly. I'm only going after a pattern. And Mama, if my blue ball or my red one should roll away the least little might, couldn't I get down and pick it up? No, said Mama, speaking positively this time. I don't want you to move the least little might while I'm away. Do you promise? Yes, ma'am. She said, with a little sigh over the lonely prospect, and away went Mama down the snowy hill. The errand took longer than she meant it should. Arons generally do, I think. The pattern couldn't be found. Did you ever know a pattern that could be when it was wanted? Grandma always knew where to lay her hands on anything even in the dark, everything but patterns. She kept those in a great green box. But she used to declare that the one that she laid on the top, ready for use the next day, always dived down to the very bottom of the box and hid itself in the most unlikely corner. I don't know how that was, only I know that the flannel pattern was missing, and it seemed to the nervous Mama that she waited for about an hour while they tumbled skirt patterns and sack patterns and sleeve patterns this way and that, looking for the pattern. Here it is at last, Grandma said with a relieved sigh. I knew I put it in here, and no I put it on top, too. How it ever got under all those old basque patterns is a mystery to me. Meantime, what might not have happened up the hill? What could happen, said sceptical anti-dual, who was only hindered by a piece of pork and mustard tied around a sore throat from flying up the hill to see for herself that all went well. I'm sure I don't know, Mama said nervously. I might pick out twenty things, and none of them would be the ones, they never are. With which very odd explanation of her fears she flew up the hill. Anti-dual raised herself on one elbow and looked after her. I wish I knew that she was all right, she said wistfully. Why, what could happen to her? I said, tossing her own words back to her as I came from the kitchen where I was pairing apples. I don't know, she said, laughing. Nothing at all, I presume, but when anyone else has the fidgets I always get them. So presently Mother sent me up to see if all was right. I found the Mama giving a good many extra kisses to her darling, and the stove covers were still sissing and smoking with some greasy substance, explained by the puddle of soup that slowly dripped from the hearth to the oil cloth. The little housekeeper still kept her seat in the rocking chair by the window. You ought to have seen her, said the Mama, rising from before her with a flushed face. There she sat in her little chair, with one forefinger pointing solemnly to the wasted soup. There's your soup, Mama, she said with great gravity. There's your soup on the floor. I could have saved it, only you got me to promise not to stir. Only think, if she had attempted to lift out that great heavy kettle, she would have been scalded as sure as the world. I believe I never will leave her alone again. And she shuddered at the dreadful thought. Such a puzzled, troubled look was on Minnie's face that it almost made me laugh, and she spoke with the slowness and the dignity of an old lady. But, Mama, how could I have been scalded away over here? It couldn't reach me here, and I couldn't go any nearer to it, because, don't you remember, I promised not to stir the least little might. The chicken hasn't the least idea that there is such a thing as breaking a promise, I said, laughing. She looked at me with troubled eyes. Auntie Bell, do they break them? she said earnestly. Yes, my dear little mousey, they do, dreadfully. But that is telling a wicked story, she said in a horrified tone. Isn't it, Auntie Bell? Yes, I said, sobered into quiet answer, for a long line of carelessly made and too often carelessly broken promises seemed to come rushing past me as I looked at the solemn little face. It was a sober thought to realize that they were wicked stories. I wish everyone could realize it, said Grandpa when we told him the day's adventures. There's Mr. Casp been promising to bring me a load of wood every day for a week, and we are really in present need of it. Do you suppose that he has any idea that he has told five wicked stories about it? I hope many will grow up with just such a sense of the sacredness of a promise as she now has. She won't, said Grandma with a little sigh. She has got to be among people who think promises are not worth much, and she will learn, I'm afraid, to be like everybody else. I thought of that the other day. We were in the church preparing to have a rehearsal for our concert. One, two, three, six girls present. Three to wait for, one of them, many. Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes, then they came. Why, many, I said in dismay, here you have made us lose twenty minutes. Don't you know you promised to be here at four o'clock? She turned her beaming face full of brightness on me, and said merrily, Why, Auntie Bell, don't you think we forgot all about it? And I am afraid that she has grown wonderfully like other people, and hasn't the least remembrance that breaking promises is telling wicked stories.