Four girls of forty years ago

MISS POLLY was in her wheel-chair, which she had drawn as close as possible to the register, for the day was cold, and only a small amount of furnace heat reached the top floor. She had evidently been reading, but the book had fallen into her lap, and lay there neglected, while the little cripple gazed straight before her, with a sad, far-away look in her eyes. Miss Polly was certainly thinner and paler than on that Sunday when Molly had made her first visit, but when, at the sound of a knock at her door, she turned to greet her little neighbors, her smile was as bright and her voice as cheerful as ever.

“My dear children,” she cried joyfully, “how glad I am to see you. And you’ve brought your visitor, too. How do you do, Paul? You see I know your name. These little friends of mine have told me a great deal about you. It was kind of you to come to see me.”

Paul stepped forward and held out his hand.

“I’ll sing for you if you’d like to have me,” he announced abruptly. “I don’t like doing it generally, but I don’t mind this time. Dulcie says you like music.”

Miss Polly beamed.

“I do indeed,” she said, heartily. “I should love to hear you sing. It was dear of you to think of offering.”

“Do you like hand-organs?” inquired Paul, gravely. “There was a very nice one playing in front of our house this morning. It played six tunes, and there was a monkey. I threw out five cents, and the monkey took off his hat. If you give an organ-man five cents, he’ll generally play for quite a long time.”

Miss Polly smiled, and said that hand-organs were sometimes rather pleasant, and then Dulcie—who had been eagerly awaiting her turn to speak—came forward with her offering.

“We’ve brought you a present,” she said. “It’s some candied fruit that Miss Leslie sent us all the way from California, and it’s delicious. We wanted you to have some, but I’m sorry we hadn’t a nicer box to put it in.”

“It’s really Dulcie’s present,” put in Daisy. “Miss Leslie sent it for her birthday, so we ought not to be thanked. We all wanted to bring you a present, but this is the first time we ever had anything we thought you would enjoy.”

Miss Polly was warm in her thanks, and at Maud’s request, consented to try a candied apricot, which she pronounced to be delicious. Then she asked some questions about the birthday, and was told the story of the family presents and “the make-believe party.”

“Make-believe things are really quite good fun sometimes, when you can’t have real ones,” remarked Daisy, cheerfully, when the story—to which Miss Polly had listened with much interest—was finished. “Once Aunt Kate wanted our old dolls to put in a missionary box, and we thought it would be selfish not to let the poor little missionary children have them. We missed them very much at first, but then we played we had a whole family of imaginary children, that nobody could see but ourselves, and it was so interesting we forgot all about the dolls. It was very nice afterwards, for the missionary’s little girl wrote us a letter, and told us how much she and her sister were enjoying our dolls. She described the log-house where they live, away out West, where the Indians are, and it was so interesting. We’ve got the letter still. Would you like to see it?”

Miss Polly said she would like it very much, and then, noticing signs of impatience on Paul’s part, she asked him if he would like to begin to sing.

“All right,” said the small boy, promptly. “I guess I’ll sing ‘The Holy City’ first. You might not understand the French songs.” And without further hesitation, he began to sing in a voice so clear and true that the little girls gazed at him in speechless surprise and admiration.

There were actually tears in Miss Polly’s eyes when the song ended, and her “Oh, my dear, that was a treat!” sounded so genuine that Paul’s bosom swelled with pride.

“I’ll sing ‘Au Claire De La Lune’ next,” he said, condescendingly, “and if you don’t understand French, I’ll translate it into English.”

It appeared, however, that Miss Polly did understand French, and perhaps the next half-hour was the most enjoyable the invalid had spent since the day when her beloved piano was taken away. Paul sang song after song, some in English, others in French, some sad, some gay; ending with several selections from “Pinafore,” the charming operetta, which had taken the world by storm a year before.

“You have given me more pleasure than I can express,” Miss Polly said, when they had all stopped laughing over “The Ruler of the Queen’s Navee,” and Paul had been forced to admit that his throat was getting tired. “You have a beautiful voice, my boy; your mother must be very proud of you.”

“She is,” said Paul, innocently. “She’s always wanting to show me off; that’s why I hate it so.”

“We should not hate to do anything that gives other people pleasure,” said Miss Polly gently.

Paul reddened.

“I don’t hate singing for you,” he said, bluntly. “I’d do it every day, only we’re going back to Boston next Monday. Would you like to have me say some poetry?”

“I would indeed,” said Miss Polly, whereupon Paul proceeded to give them “Young Lochinvar,” “The Baron’s Last Banquet,” and several more of the famous old ballads, known to almost every schoolboy of the past generation. He had been well taught, and as he was really fond of poetry, the recitations were given in a spirit which quite thrilled the younger members of his audience.

“You really are an awfully clever boy, Paul,” remarked Molly, in a tone of some awe, at the conclusion of “Bingen on the Rhine.” “Aunt Julia always said you were, but since we’ve known you we thought perhaps she might have made a mistake.”

“That’s because I don’t like showing off,” said Paul, quite unruffled by this rather uncomplimentary observation. “I don’t mind doing things for Miss Polly, though. I say, Miss Polly, if you’d like to have that organ-man with the monkey come every day, I think perhaps I could arrange it. I’ve got ’most three dollars, and I could leave it with the girls, and tell them to give him ten cents every time he came. An organ-man will come very often to a place if he knows he’s going to get ten cents every time.”

Miss Polly laughed her old merry laugh, and then she suddenly drew Paul to her side.

“You dear, kind little boy,” she said, and before the embarrassed Paul fully realized her intention, she had kissed him.

Paul drew away; he had grown very red.

“I don’t like to have anybody kiss me except Mother,” he said, ungraciously, “but I’d be real glad to leave that money for the organ-man.” But in spite of the ungracious words, Paul was not nearly so much offended as he would like to appear, and perhaps Miss Polly understood, for she only smiled.

“I’m afraid we must go now,” said Dulcie, rising reluctantly. “It’s nearly dinner-time, and Aunt Julia will wonder where Paul is.”

“Well, you have given me a very happy afternoon,” said Miss Polly, “and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It is very kind of you to want to give me the pleasure of that hand-organ, Paul, but I think I would a little rather have you spend your money in some other way. I shall not forget your offer, though, and I hope you may be able to make me another visit before you go back to Boston.”

“Isn’t she a darling?” exclaimed Molly, the moment Miss Polly’s door closed behind them, to which Paul replied, with unusual gravity:

“She’s about the nicest lady I ever saw, and she’s awfully pretty, too. It must be awful to have to stay in that room all the time, and never even go down-stairs. I wish she’d let me do that thing about the organ-man.”

Although it was later than the children suspected, fortune favored Paul. His mother had been engaged with visitors for more than an hour, and when the front door closed behind the last one, at a quarter to six, and Mrs. Chester hurried up-stairs to dress for dinner, she found her small son dutifully brushing his hair before the mirror.

“Well, and have you and the little girls had a pleasant afternoon together?” she asked, kindly.

“Yes’m,” answered Paul, giving his red crop a final pat with the hair-brush. “Dulcie loved the book. It was the only new present she had, except the candy the lady from California sent.”

“What is this I hear about a package that came for Dulcie by express this afternoon?” inquired Grandma, as the four little girls trooped into the dining-room at six o’clock. “Mary has been telling me about it.”

“It was a birthday present from Miss Leslie,” said Dulcie, “a box of the loveliest candied fruit. Wasn’t it kind of her to send it, Grandma?”

Mrs. Winslow frowned.

“Candied fruit,” she repeated. “I suppose that means you have all been eating between meals—a thing you are strictly forbidden to do. Go up-stairs at once, and bring the box down here to me. You should have done so when it first arrived.”

Dulcie gave a little gasp of dismay. It was true they had all helped themselves from the box, but that was not by any means the worst thing that had happened, for in her eagerness to give poor Miss Polly a present, she had emptied out more than half the contents of Miss Leslie’s gift. How was Grandma to be made to understand that they had not eaten all that fruit themselves, without betraying their precious secret? She and her sisters might be willing to assume the rôle of little gourmands, but would Paul? However, there was no help for it. No one had ever dared deliberately to disobey Grandma. So, with an agonized glance at her four companions, who had all turned a little pale, Dulcie left the room.

The family were already at the dinner-table when she returned, carrying the telltale box, which certainly did feel painfully light, considering its size, and set it down on the table beside Grandma’s plate.

“It took you long enough to get it,” Mrs. Winslow said, dryly. “The next time you receive a present, don’t try to conceal it from me. Just as I supposed; the box is half empty already.”

“Let me see, Mother,” said Mrs. Chester, anxiously. “Good gracious, Paul, have you been eating all those dreadful sweet things between meals?”

“I ate some,” Paul admitted. The little girls were all casting imploring glances at the sharer of their secret.

“Some!” cried Mrs. Chester, reproachfully. “You must have eaten quantities. What shall I do, Mother? He is sure to be ill to-morrow; he has such a delicate digestion.”

“They must all be punished, of course,” was Grandma’s instant decision. “They have chosen to make little pigs of themselves, and must take the consequences. They shall each have a dose of castor oil before going to bed, and as they cannot possibly be hungry at present, they can go up to the nursery, where Mary will bring them each a bowl of bread and milk, which is all the dinner they require.”

Paul had grown scarlet. Twice he opened his lips to speak, and the little girls held their breaths, but each time he closed them resolutely, and when the four chairs were pushed back from the table, in obedience to Grandma’s mandate, he rose with the rest. His only protest was against the threatened dose.

“I’ll eat bread and milk if I’ve got to,” he compromised, “but I won’t take that nasty castor oil.”

“You will do as you are told,” said Grandma, sternly, and although Paul’s mother looked distressed, she dared not interfere.

“Oh, Paul, you are a brave, splendid boy,” whispered Molly, gratefully, as the five little culprits went solemnly up-stairs together. “We were so afraid you were going to tell.”

Paul shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“I promised I wouldn’t tell,” he said. “Father says it’s dishonorable to break a promise. I don’t mind bread and milk very much—it’s better than soup with onions in it, anyway—but you don’t suppose she really meant that about the castor oil, do you?”

“I’m afraid she did,” said Dulcie. “Grandma never says things she doesn’t mean. Will you mind it so very much, Paul? It isn’t so awfully bad if you take it in orange juice, and drink it very fast, so you don’t have time to taste.”

Paul made a wry face.

“It’s nasty,” he said. “I never took it but once. That was when I ate green apples, and Mother thought I was going to die. I won’t tell, though, you needn’t be scared, I won’t tell, no matter what happens.”

They had reached the nursery by this time, and Dulcie paused in the act of turning up the gas.

“Paul,” she said, impressively, “I think you are one of the nicest boys in this world. If you’d lived in the time of the martyrs, I’m almost sure you would have been one. That saint boy who stood and shouted that he was a Christian, while they were shooting him with arrows, was about the bravest one I ever read about, but if you’d been alive then, I believe you’d have done just the same.”

Paul was very much flattered.

“Perhaps I might,” he admitted, modestly. “I’d like to read about him. Have you got the book?”

“No, I got it out of the library, but I can try to get it again, if you would like to read it. Do you think you will really be able to swallow that castor oil without telling you didn’t eat all that fruit?”

Paul nodded reassuringly.

“I can do anything I make up my mind to,” he said. “I’d rather do ’most anything than not be allowed to go and see Miss Polly again. I’ve thought of lots of interesting things to tell her. I’m sure she’d like to hear about our telephone.”

“What’s a telephone?” inquired Molly, who had never heard the word before.

“Oh, it’s a wonderful thing. It’s like a speaking tube, only you have to ring a bell, and then you hear a voice asking what number you want, and you say, and if it’s the number of your father’s office, and he’s there, he answers you. Not many people have telephones in their houses yet, but we have one, and Father says he wouldn’t be surprised if some day everybody had them, and you would be talking from New York to Boston, just as easy as you call down to Bridget through the tube.”

This last announcement was almost too great a strain on politeness.

“Of course you’re just making up a story,” said Daisy, while Molly and Maud giggled derisively. “You couldn’t possibly hear your father’s voice when he was down-town in his office and you were at home.”

“I can, too,” maintained Paul. “If you ever come to Boston I’ll show you. Maybe there are some telephones in New York, but I’m not sure. Father says Boston is generally ahead of other places.”

Molly and Maud still looked unconvinced, and even Daisy would have liked to argue the point, but Dulcie, who felt that Paul was entitled to a great deal of consideration that evening, hastened to change the subject.

“Let’s talk some more about Miss Polly,” she said rather hurriedly. “Did you see that photograph of her brother on the bureau? I think he has a very kind face.”

So no more was said on the subject of telephones, and in a short time Mary appeared with the five bowls of bread and milk. The evening that followed seemed unusually long. It was impossible to settle down to reading or playing games, with the awful shadow of castor oil hanging over them.

“I wish Grandma would hurry up and give it to us,” complained Molly. “Things aren’t as bad when they really happen as when you’re expecting them.” Daisy shuddered.

“Let’s think about something else,” she said. “Read ‘Little Men,’ Dulcie. Perhaps we’ll get so much interested we’ll forget about the oil.”

Dulcie consented, but even the fascination of Miss Alcott’s charming story was powerless to drive away unpleasant anticipations, and when at eight o’clock Grandma’s familiar footstep was heard ascending the stairs, the five little faces were very pale and troubled. But though Paul was pale, he was resolute. Not once did his courage fail, and when his turn came, he swallowed the disagreeable dose without a murmur.

“I had no idea I should grow so fond of Paul,” remarked Dulcie to Daisy, when they were all in bed. “I’m glad we told him about Miss Polly. I know she loved hearing him sing.”

“Paul is a very nice boy,” agreed Daisy, “but I’m afraid he doesn’t always tell the truth. That thing about the telephone couldn’t possibly be true.”

“It was just a story,” said Dulcie, indulgently. “People often make up stories just for fun. Why, it wasn’t any sillier than the story I made up about the fairy who lives in a music-box, and when people wound it up, they could hear a real voice singing inside.”

“But we all knew that was only a make-up,” objected Daisy. “We knew it wasn’t true. But Paul really tried to make us believe they had that wonderful thing in his house, and he looked so serious when he was telling it, that if it hadn’t been so perfectly impossible, I think I should have believed it was true.”