Annie Hamilton Donnell

“ One’s legs may be kind even to the verge of agony, but how unkind one’s tongue may be! Jolly’s mind was busy with his own anticipated woes; he did not know he was unkind.
“That’s all,—thank you, I mean,” came wearily, hopelessly, from the pillows. But Morry called the other back before he got over the threshold. There was another thing upon which he craved enlightenment. It might possibly help out.
“Are they pretty, Jolly?” he asked, wistfully.
“Are who what?” repeated the boy on the threshold, puzzled. Guilt and apprehension dull one’s wits. ”

“ It was Uncle Larry who carried him home, asleep still, and laid him gently on his own little bed. Uncle Larry’s bearded face was shining in the dark room like a star. The tumult of joy in the man’s heart clamored for utterance. Uncle Larry felt the need of telling some one. So, because he could not help it, he leaned down and shook the Little Lover gently. ”

“ A wave of infinite longing had swept over the shy, sensitive soul of the Little Girl who should have been a Boy. One of two things must happen—she must be loved, or die. So, being desperate, she resolved to chance everything. It was under the Golden Pippin tree, rocking herself back and forth in the long grass, that she made her plans. Straight on the heels of them she went to the gardener’s little boy.
“Lend me—no, I mean give me—your best clothes,” she said, with gentle imperiousness. ”

“ It was a dream,—still—where was the Treasury Box?
“I wish I knew for very certain,” the Little Lover mused. “I could ask Uncle Larry, but I hate Uncle Larry—” Oh! Then it wasn’t a dream. It was true. It all came back. The Little Lover remembered why he hated Uncle Larry. He remembered it all. Lying there in his little bed he smelt the beautiful smell again and followed it up to the roses on Her dress. They were Uncle Larry’s roses, so he hated Uncle Larry. He always would. He did not hate Her, but he would never go to see Her again. He would never nod or smile at Her again in church. ”

“ Ogres would have prob’ly wanted a Boy too, and that’s the way they’d have let you see your mistake. So, till she found a better name, the Little Girl who had made the mistake called her father the Ogre. She was very proud and fond of the Shining Mother, but she was a little afraid of the Ogre. After all, one feeling mattered about as much as the other.
“It doesn’t hurt you any to be afraid, when you do it all alone by yourself,” she reasoned, “and it doesn’t do you any good to be fond. It only amuses you,” she added, with sad wisdom. ”

“ Sheelah had taught him what a promise was; it was something not to be shaken or killed even in a railroad wreck.
“When anybody promises, they do it,” he said, sturdily. “She promised an’ she’ll come.”
“Then her angel will have to come,” remarked the older, girl child, coolly, with awful use of the indicative mood.
When the half-hour was over and Murray at liberty, he went in to the clock and stood before it with hands a-pocket and wide-spread legs. A great yearning was upon him to know the mystery of telling time. He wished—oh, how he wished he had let Sheelah teach him! ”

“ He nestled against the soft down of her cloak and moaned as if in pain. “It’s awful afterwards when you have to sleep with the Lie. It’s perfectly—aw—ful—”
“Oh, Carter!” the mother broke out, for it was all plain to her. In a flash of agonized understanding the wistful little sleep-story was filled out in every detail. She understood all the tragedy of it.
“Russy! Russy!” She shook him in her eagerness. “Russy, it’s my kisses! I’m kissing you! It isn’t Jeffy’s mother,—it’s your mother, Russy! Feel them!—don’t you feel them on your forehead and your hair and your little red lips? ”

“ It looked an easy thing to do, but there were limitations.
“If I’d ever had a real one, it would be easier,” Morry thought wistfully. Of course, any amount easier! The mothers you read about and the Holy Ones you saw in pictures were not quite real enough. What you needed was to have had one of your own. Then,—Morry’s eyes closed in a dizzy little vision of one of his own. One that would have dressed and undressed you instead of an Ellen,—that would have moved your chair about and beaten up the cushions,—one that maybe would have loved you, legs and all! ”

“ In bed he lay and thought out his little puzzles and steeled himself for what was to come. He pondered over the word Jolly had looked up in the dictionary for him. It was a puzzly word,—Rec-om-pense,—but he thought he understood it now. It meant something that made up to you for something you’d suffered,—“suffered,” that was what it said. And Morry had suffered—oh, how! Could it be possible there was anything that would make up for little, limp, sorrowful legs that had never been?
With the fickleness of night-thoughts his musings flitted back to step-ones again. ”

“ But I haven’t told Anne. Anne is the kind of person not to tell, until the last moment. It saves one’s nerves—heigh-ho! I thought I was coming here to get away from nerves! I was so satisfied. I really meant to thank you, John, until I discovered—it. Oh yes, I know—Elizabeth is looking over your shoulder, and you two are saying something that is unfit for publication about old maids! My children, then thank the Lord you aren’t either of you old maids. Make the most of it.”
Miss Salome let her pen slip to the bare floor and gazed before her wistfully. ”

“ When Ellen came in to put Morry to bed she found wet spots on his cushions, but she did not mention them. Ellens can be wise. She only handled the limp little figure rather more gently than usual, and said rather more cheery things, perhaps. Perhaps that was why the small fellow under her hands decided to appeal in his desperation to her. It was possible—things were always possible—that Ellen might know something of—of step-ones. For Morry was battling with the pitifully unsatisfactory information Jolly had given him before understanding had conceived the kind little lie. ”

“ Miss Salome’s face was gently frowning as she wrote.
“Dear John,” the letter began,—“It’s all very well except one thing. I wonder you didn’t think of that. I’m thinking of it most of the time, and it takes away so much of the pleasure of the rose-garden and the raspberry-bushes! Anne is in raptures over the raspberry-bushes.
“Yes, the raspberries and the roses are all right. And I like the stone-wall with the woodbine over it. (Good boy, you remembered that, didn’t you?) And the apple-tree and the horse-chestnut and the elm—of course I like them. ”

“ She would have been out there singing “Glory, glory hallelujah,” too.
“She’s to blame—I hate her!” came muffledly from the pillows. “Oh, I do!—I can’t help it, I do! I’m always going to hate her forevermore! She needn’t have—”
Needn’t have what? What had the little scape-goat out there in the twilight done? But Margaret was beyond reasoning now. “Mine enemy hath done it,” was enough for her. If she lived a thousand years—if she lived two thousand—she would never speak to the Enemy again,—never forgive her,—never put her into her prayer again among the God blesses. ”

“ What do they know about being a Mother and having your little Boy away? Oh yes, they can laugh and be relieved—and rested—and soothed! It’s mothers whose hearts break with lonesomeness—mothers and ugly little dogs. ”

“ A p’omise—a p’omise—why, when anybody p’omises, they do it!”
Queer how plainly she could hear Little Silly say that and could see him sitting in the sun! Just the little white dress he had on—tucks in it and a dainty edging of lace! She had recognized Sheelah’s maxims and laughed. Sheelah was stuffing the child with notions.
“If anybody p’omises, they do it.” It seemed to come to her over the wire in a baby’s voice and to strike against her heart. This mother of a little son stood suddenly self-convicted of a crime—the crime of faithlessness. ”

“ Bobby had never looked at himself in a mirror. Of course he had seen himself up to his chin—dear, yes—and admired his own little straight legs often enough, and doubled up his little round arms to hunt for his “muscle.” In a quiet, unobtrusive way Bobby was rather proud of himself. He had to be—there was no one else, you see. And even at six, when there is so little else to do, one can put in considerable time regarding one’s legs and arms.
“I guess you don’t call those bow-legged legs, do you, Olga?” ”

“ He was only six, but the pain in his heart was so big that he did not think to wish She would send back the Treasury Box soon, on account of the softest apple.
The days went by until they made a month,—two months,—half a year. The pain in the Little Lover’s heart softened to a dreary loneliness, but that stayed on. He had always been a lonely little chap, but not like this. He had never had a mother, and his father had nearly always been away. But this was different. Now he had nobody to love, and he hated Uncle Larry. ”

“ Ellen had waked him up.
A boy would like to have his father come home in the sunshine, and the sun was shining. They would come walking up the path to the front-door through it,—with it warm and welcoming on their faces. But it would only be Dadsy and a step-one,—Jolly’s kind, most likely. Jolly’s kind was pretty,—she might be pretty. But she would not come smiling and creeping out of the dark with a halo over her head. That kind came in dreams.
Jolly’s whistle was comforting to hear. Morry leaned out of his cushions to wave his hand. Jolly was going to school ”

“ Its other name was Daisy.
“Hullo, Murray! Is it you?” Daisy, being of the right sex, asked needless questions sometimes.
“Yes,” answered Murray, politely.
“Well, le’s play. I can stay half a hour. Le’s tag.”
“I can’t play,” rejoined Murray, caution restraining his natural desires. “I’m being good.”
I can’t play ... I’m being good
“Oh, my!” shrilled the girl child derisively. “Can’t you be good tagging? Come on.”
“No; because you might—I might get no-fairing, and then Sheelah’d come out and say I was bad. Le’s sit here and talk; it’s safer to. What’s a lark, Daisy? I was going to ask Sheelah.” ”

“ Morry said, politely. It’s easy enough to remember to be polite when you have so much time. “Now I’d like Jolly,—you guess he’s got home now, don’t you?”
Ellen’s steps sounded a little thuddier as they tramped back down the hall. “It’s a good thing there’s going to be a Her here to send that common boy kiting!” she was thinking. Yet his patches were all Ellen—so far—had seen in Jolly to find fault with. Though, for that matter, in a house beautiful like this patches were, goodness knew, out of place enough! ”

“ Margaret writhed deeper into the pillows. She knew what the rest of it was—“Glory, glory, hallelujah, ’tisn’t me! My soul goes marching on!” She was out there singing that a-purpose!
In her desperate need for some one to lay her trouble to, Margaret “laid it to” the Enemy. A sudden, bitter, unreasoning resentment took possession of her. If there hadn’t been an Enemy, there wouldn’t have been a trouble. Everything would have been beautiful and—and respectable, just as it was before. ”

“ Elizabeth cried, “I am thinking!”
“—That is why he must not stay over there. There are so many babies. I am going over there now.”
The letter that followed this one was a week delayed.
“Dear John,” it said,—“you must be looking out for another place. If anything should—he is very sick, John! And I could not stay here without him. Nor Anne. John, would you ever think that Anne was born a nurse? Well, the Lord made her one. I have found it out. Not with a little dainty white cap on, and a nurse’s apron,—not that kind, but with light, cool fingers and a great, tender heart. ”

“ With that wish, which was a very Big One indeed, came trooping back all Morry’s Troubles. They stood round his easy-chair and pressed up close against him. He hugged the most intimate ones to his little, thin breast.
It was getting twilight in the great, beautiful room, and twilight was trouble-time. Morry had found that out long ago. It’s when it’s too dark to read and too light for Ellens to come and light the lamps that you say “Come in!” to your troubles. They’re always there waiting.
If Dadsy hadn’t gone away to do—that. ”

“ After that, Miss Salome and Anne were not so reserved. What was the use? And it was much easier, after all, to be found out. Things ran along smoothly and pleasantly after that.
Late in the autumn, Elizabeth, looking over John’s shoulder one day, laughed, then cried out, sharply. “Oh!” she said; “oh, I am sorry!” And John echoed her an instant later.
“Dear John,” the letter said, “when you were little were you ever very sick, and did you die? Oh, I see, but don’t laugh. I think I am a little out of my head to-day. One is when one is anxious. And Little Blue Overalls is very sick. ”

“ Yes, that must be the reg’larest kind of a lark, but Murray did not deceive himself, once the dream was over. He knew that kind was not waiting for him at the end of this long day. But a lark was waiting, anyway—a plain lark. It might have been the bird kind in his little heart now, singing for joy at the prospect.
Impatience seized upon Murray. He wanted this little neighbor’s half-hour to be up, so that he could go in and watch the clock. He wanted Sheelah to come out here, for that would mean it was ten o’clock; she always came at ten. ”

“ She was ready at seven o’clock, and sat, a little patient statue, watching the nursery clock. Marie, who had planned to go out and had intended setting the hands of the clock ahead a little, was unwarrantably angry with the Child for sitting there so persistently. “Come,” she said, impatiently; “I’ve got your night-gown ready. This clock’s too slow.”
“Truly, is it?” the Child questioned, anxiously. “Slow means it’s ’most half-past, doesn’t it? Then I ought to be going!”
“Yes,—come along;” but Marie meant to bed, and the Child was already on her way to her father. ”

“ But it was noticeable that the legs were in some curious manner telescoped up out of sight, once Jolly was seated. The phenomenon was of common occurrence,—they were always telescoped then. And nothing had ever been said between the two boys about legs. About arms, yes, and eyes, ears, noses,—never legs. If Morry understood the kind little device to save his feelings, an instinctive knowledge that any expression of gratitude would embarrass Jolly must have kept back his ready little thank you.
“Can you hunt up things?” demanded the small host with rather startling energy. ”