WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE

When I was Your Age

BY

LAURA E. RICHARDS

AUTHOR OF “CAPTAIN JANUARY,” “MELODY,”
“QUEEN HILDEGARDE,” ETC.


ILLUSTRATED


BOSTON
ESTES AND LAURIAT
1894




Copyright, 1893,
By Estes and Lauriat.

University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A.

TO THE

Dear and Honored Memory of my Father,

DR. SAMUEL GRIDLEY HOWE.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE.

CHAPTER I.

OURSELVES.

There were five of us. There had been six, but the Beautiful Boy was taken home to heaven while he was still very little; and it was good for the rest of us to know that there was always one to wait for and welcome us in the Place of Light to which we should go some day. So, as I said, there were five of us here,—Julia Romana, Florence, Harry, Laura, and Maud. Julia was the eldest. She took her second name from the ancient city in which she was born, and she was as beautiful as a soft Italian evening,—with dark hair, clear gray eyes, perfect features, and a complexion of such pure and wonderful red and white as I have never seen in any other face. She had a look as if when she came away from heaven she had been allowed to remember it, while others must forget; and she walked in a dream always, of beauty and poetry, thinking of strange things. Very shy she was, very sensitive. When Flossy (this was Florence’s home name) called her “a great red-haired giant,” she wept bitterly, and reproached her sister for hurting her feelings. Julia knew everything, according to the belief of the younger children. What story was there she could not tell? She it was who led the famous before-breakfast walks, when we used to start off at six o’clock and walk to the Yellow Chases’ (we never knew any other name for them; it was the house that was yellow, not the people) at the top of the long hill, or sometimes even to the windmill beyond it, where we could see the miller at work, all white and dusty, and watch the white sails moving slowly round. And on the way Julia told us stories, from Scott or Shakspere; or gave us the plot of some opera, “Ernani” or “Trovatore,” with snatches of song here and there. “Ai nostri monti ritornaremo,” whenever I hear this familiar air ground out by a hand-organ, everything fades from my eyes save a long white road fringed with buttercups and wild marigolds, and five little figures, with rosy hungry faces, trudging along, and listening to the story of the gypsy queen and her stolen troubadour.

Julia wrote stories herself, too,—very wonderful stories, we all thought, and, indeed, I think so still. She began when she was a little girl, not more than six or seven years old. There lies beside me now on the table a small book, about five inches square, bound in faded pink and green, and filled from cover to cover with writing in a cramped, childish hand. It is a book of novels and plays, written by our Julia before she was ten years old; and I often think that the beautiful and helpful things she wrote in her later years were hardly more remarkable than these queer little romances. They are very sentimental; no child of eight, save perhaps Marjorie Fleming, was ever so sentimental as Julia,—“Leonora Mayre; A Tale,” “The Lost Suitor,” “The Offers.” I must quote a scene from the last-named play.

The fifth scene of this remarkable drama is laid in the church, and is very thrilling. The stage directions are brief, but it is evident from the text that as Mr. Emerson and his taciturn bride advance to the altar, Messrs. Cas and Bruin, “to gain some private ends,” do the same. The Bishop is introduced without previous announcement.

I meant to give one scene, and I have given the whole play, not knowing where to stop. There was nothing funny about it to Julia. The heroine, with her wonderful command of silence, was her ideal of maiden reserve and dignity; the deep-dyed villany of Bruin and Cas, the retiring manners of the fortunate Emerson, the singular sprightliness of the Bishop, were all perfectly natural, as her vivid mind saw them.

So she was bitterly grieved one day when a dear friend of the family, to whom our mother had read the play, rushed up to her, and seizing her hand, cried,—

“‘Julia, will you have me?’ ‘No!’ Exit Mr. Bruin.”

Deeply grieved the little maiden was; and it cannot have been very long after that time that she gave the little book to her dearest aunt, who has kept it carefully through all these years.

If Julia was like Milton’s “Penseroso,” Flossy was the “Allegro” in person, or like Wordsworth’s maiden,—

She was very small as a child. One day a lady, not knowing that the little girl was within hearing, said to her mother, “What a pity Flossy is so small!”

“I’m big inside!” cried a little angry voice at her elbow; and there was Flossy, swelling with rage, like an offended bantam. And she was big inside! her lively, active spirit seemed to break through the little body and carry it along in spite of itself. Sometimes it was an impish spirit; always it was an enterprising one.

She it was who invented the dances which seemed to us such wonderful performances. We danced every evening in the great parlor, our mother playing for us on the piano. There was the “Macbeth” dance, in which Flossy figured as Lady Macbeth. With a dagger in her hand, she crept and rushed and pounced and swooped about in a most terrifying manner, always graceful as a fairy. A sofa-pillow played the part of Duncan, and had a very hard time of it. The “Julius Cæsar” dance was no less tragic; we all took part in it, and stabbed right and left with sticks of kindling-wood. One got the curling-stick and was happy, for it was the next thing to the dagger, which no one but Flossy could have. Then there was the dance of the “Four Seasons,” which had four figures. In spring we sowed, in summer we reaped; in autumn we hunted the deer, and in winter there was much jingling of bells. The hunting figure was most exciting. It was performed with knives (kindling-wood), as Flossy thought them more romantic than guns; they were held close to the side, with point projecting, and in this way we moved with a quick chassé step, which, coupled with a savage frown, was supposed to be peculiarly deadly.

Flossy invented many other amusements, too. There was the school-loan system. We had school in the little parlor at that time, and our desks had lids that lifted up. In her desk Flossy kept a number of precious things, which she lent to the younger children for so many pins an hour. The most valuable thing was a set of three colored worsted balls, red, green, and blue. You could set them twirling, and they would keep going for ever so long. It was a delightful sport; but they were very expensive, costing, I think, twenty pins an hour. It took a long time to collect twenty pins, for of course it was not fair to take them out of the pin-cushions.

Then there was a glass eye-cup without a foot; that cost ten pins, and was a great favorite with us. You stuck it in your eye, and tried to hold it there while you winked with the other. Of course all this was done behind the raised desk-lid, and I have sometimes wondered what the teacher was doing that she did not find us out sooner. She was not very observant, and I am quite sure she was afraid of Flossy. One sad day, however, she caught Laura with the precious glass in her eye, and it was taken away forever. It was a bitter thing to the child (I know all about it, for I was Laura) to be told that she could never have it again, even after school. She had paid her ten pins, and she could not see what right the teacher had to take the glass away. But after that the school-loan system was forbidden, and I have never known what became of the three worsted balls.

Flossy also told stories; or rather she told one story which had no end, and of which we never tired. Under the sea, she told us, lived a fairy named Patty, who was a most intimate friend of hers, and whom she visited every night. This fairy dwelt in a palace hollowed out of a single immense pearl. The rooms in it were countless, and were furnished in a singular and delightful manner. In one room the chairs and sofas were of chocolate; in another, of fresh strawberries; in another, of peaches,—and so on. The floors were paved with squares of chocolate and cream candy; the windows were of transparent barley-sugar, and when you broke off the arm of a chair and ate it, or took a square or two out of the pavement, they were immediately replaced, so that there was no trouble for anyone. Patty had a ball every evening, and Flossy never failed to go. Sometimes, when we were good, she would take us; but the singular thing about it was that we never remembered what had happened. In the morning our infant minds were a cheerful blank, till Flossy told us what a glorious time we had had at Patty’s the night before, how we had danced with Willie Winkie, and how much ice-cream we had eaten. We listened to the recital with unalloyed delight, and believed every word of it, till a sad day of awakening came. We were always made to understand that we could not bring away anything from Patty’s, and were content with this arrangement; but on this occasion there was to be a ball of peculiar magnificence, and Flossy, in a fit of generosity, told Harry that he was to receive a pair of diamond trousers, which he would be allowed to bring home. Harry was a child with a taste for magnificence; and he went to bed full of joy, seeing already in anticipation the glittering of the jewelled garment, and the effects produced by it on the small boys of his acquaintance. Bitter was the disappointment when, on awakening in the morning, the chair by his bedside bore only the familiar brown knickerbockers, with a patch of a lighter shade on one knee. Harry wept, and would not be comforted; and after that, though we still liked to hear the Patty stories, we felt that the magic of them was gone,—that they were only stories, like “Blue-beard” or “Jack and the Beanstalk.”

CHAPTER II.

MORE ABOUT OURSELVES.

These fragments will, I am sure, make my readers regret deeply the loss of this language, which has the merit of entire originality.

As to Flossy’s talent for making paper-dolls, it is a thing not to be described. There were no such paper-dolls as those. Their figures might not be exactly like the human figure, but how infinitely more graceful! Their waists were so small that they sometimes broke in two when called upon to courtesy to a partner or a queen: that was the height of delicacy! They had ringlets invariably, and very large eyes with amazing lashes; they smiled with unchanging sweetness, filling our hearts with delight. Many and wonderful were their dresses. The crinoline of the day was magnified into a sort of vast semi-circular cloud, adorned about the skirt with strange patterns; one small doll would sometimes wear a whole sheet of foolscap in an evening dress! That was extravagant, but our daughters must be in the fashion. There was one yellow dress belonging to my doll Parthenia (a lovely creature of Jewish aspect, whose waist was smaller than her legs), which is not even now to be remembered without emotion. We built houses for the paper-dolls with books from the parlor table, even borrowing some from the bookcase when we wanted an extra suite of rooms. I do not say it was good for the books, but it was very convenient for the dolls. I have reason to think that our mother did not know of this practice. In the matter of their taking exercise, however, she aided us materially, giving us sundry empty trinket-boxes lined with satin, which made the most charming carriages in the world. The state coach was a silver-gilt portemonnaie lined with red silk. It had seen better days, and the clasp was broken; but that did not make it less available as a coach. I wish you could have seen Parthenia in it!

I do not think we cared so much for other dolls, yet there were some that must be mentioned. Vashti Ann was named for a cook; she belonged to Julia, and I have an idea that she was of a very haughty and disagreeable temper, though I cannot remember her personal appearance. Still more shadowy is my recollection of Eliza Viddipock,—a name to be spoken with bated breath. What dark crime this wretched doll had committed to merit her fearful fate, I do not know; it was a thing not to be spoken of to the younger children, apparently. But I do know that she was hanged, with all solemnity of judge and hangman. It seems unjust that I should have forgotten the name of Julia’s good doll, who died, and had the cover of the sugar-bowl buried with her, as a tribute to her virtues.

Sally Bradford and Clara both belonged to Laura. Sally was an india-rubber doll; Clara, a doll with a china head of the old-fashioned kind, smooth, shining black hair, brilliant rosy cheeks, and calm (very calm) blue eyes. I prefer this kind of doll to any other. Clara’s life was an uneventful one, on the whole, and I remember only one remarkable thing in it. A little girl in the neighborhood invited Laura to a dolls’ party on a certain day: she was to bring Clara by special request. Great was the excitement, for Laura was very small, and had never yet gone to a party. A seamstress was in the house making the summer dresses, and our mother said that Clara should have a new frock for the party. It seemed a very wonderful thing to have a real new white muslin frock, made by a real seamstress, for one’s beloved doll. Clara had a beautiful white neck, so the frock was made low and trimmed with lace. When the afternoon came, Laura brought some tiny yellow roses from the greenhouse, and the seamstress sewed them on down the front of the frock and round the neck and hem. It is not probable that any other doll ever looked so beautiful as Clara when her toilet was complete.

Then Laura put on her own best frock, which was not one half so fine, and tied on her gray felt bonnet, trimmed with quillings of pink and green satin ribbon, and started off, the proudest and happiest child in the whole world. She reached the house (it was very near) and climbed up the long flight of stone steps, and stood on tiptoe to ring the bell,—then waited with a beating heart. Would there be many other dolls? Would any of them be half so lovely as Clara? Would there—dreadful thought!—would there be big girls there?

The door opened. If any little girls read this they will now be very sorry for Laura. There was no dolls’ party! Rosy’s mother (the little girl’s name was Rosy) had heard nothing at all about it; Rosy had gone to spend the afternoon with Sarah Crocker.

“Sorry, little girl! What a pretty dolly! Good-by, dear!” and then the door was shut again.

Laura toddled down the long stone steps, and went solemnly home. She did not cry, because it would not be nice to cry in the street; but she could not see very clearly. She never went to visit Rosy again, and never knew whether the dolls’ party had been forgotten, or why it was given up.

Before leaving the subject of dolls, I must say a word about little Maud’s first doll. Maud was a child of rare beauty, as beautiful as Julia, though very different. Her fair hair was of such color and quality that our mother used to call her Silk-and-silver, a name which suited her well; her eyes were like stars under their long black lashes. So brilliant, so vivid was the child’s coloring that she seemed to flash with silver and rosy light as she moved about. She was so much younger than the others that in many of their reminiscences she has no share; yet she has her own stories, too. A friend of our father’s, being much impressed with this starry beauty of the child, thought it would be pleasant to give her the prettiest doll that could be found; accordingly he appeared one day bringing a wonderful creature, with hair almost like Maud’s own, and great blue eyes that opened and shut, and cheeks whose steadfast roses did not flash in and out, but bloomed always. I think the doll was dressed in blue and silver, but am not sure; she was certainly very magnificent.

Maud was enchanted, of course, and hugged her treasure, and went off with it. It happened that she had been taken only the day before to see the blind children at the Institution near by, where our father spent much of his time. It was the first time she had talked with the little blind girls, and they made a deep impression on her baby mind, though she said little at the time. As I said, she went off with her new doll, and no one saw her for some time. At length she returned, flushed and triumphant.

“My dolly is blind, now!” she cried; and she displayed the doll, over whose eyes she had tied a ribbon, in imitation of Laura Bridgman. “She is blind Polly! ain’t got no eyes ’t all!”

Alas! it was even so. Maud had poked the beautiful blue glass eyes till they fell in, and only empty sockets were hidden by the green ribbon. There was a great outcry, of course; but it did not disturb Maud in the least. She wanted a blind doll, and she had one; and no pet could be more carefully tended than was poor blind Polly.

More precious than any doll could be, rises in my memory the majestic form of Pistachio. It was Flossy, ever fertile in invention, who discovered the true worth of Pistachio, and taught us to regard with awe and reverence this object of her affection. Pistachio was an oval mahogany footstool, covered with green cloth of the color of the nut whose name he bore. I have the impression that he had lost a leg, but am not positive on this point. He was considered an invalid, and every morning he was put in the baby-carriage and taken in solemn procession down to the brook for his morning bath. One child held a parasol over his sacred head (only he had no head!), two more propelled the carriage, while the other two went before as outriders. No mirth was allowed on this occasion, the solemnity of which was deeply impressed on us. Arrived at the brook, Pistachio was lifted from the carriage by his chief officer, Flossy herself, and set carefully down on the flat stone beside the brook. His sacred legs were dipped one by one into the clear water, and dried with a towel. Happy was the child who was allowed to perform this function! After the bath, he was walked gently up and down, and rubbed, to assist the circulation; then he was put back in his carriage, and the procession started for home again, with the same gravity and decorum as before. The younger children felt sure there was some mystery about Pistachio. I cannot feel sure, even now, that he was nothing more than an ordinary oval cricket; but his secret, whatever it was, has perished with him.

I perceive that I have said little or nothing thus far about Harry; yet he was a very important member of the family. The only boy: and such a boy! He was by nature a Very Imp, such as has been described by Mr. Stockton in one of his delightful stories. Not two years old was he when he began to pull the tails of all the little dogs he met,—a habit which he long maintained. The love of mischief was deeply rooted in him. It was not safe to put him in the closet for misbehavior; for he cut off the pockets of the dresses hanging there, and snipped the fringe off his teacher’s best shawl. Yet he was a sweet and affectionate child, with a tender heart and sensitive withal. When about four years old, he had the habit of summoning our father to breakfast; and, not being able to say the word, would announce, “Brescott is ready!” This excited mirth among the other children, which he never could endure; accordingly, one morning he appeared at the door of the dressing-room and said solemnly, “Papa, your food is prepared!”

It is recorded of this child that he went once to pay a visit to some dear relatives, and kept them in a fever of anxiety until he was taken home again. One day it was his little cousin’s rocking-horse, which disappeared from the nursery, and shortly after was seen airing itself on the top of the chimney, kicking its heels in the sunshine, and appearing to enjoy its outing. Another time it was down the chimney that the stream of mischief took its way; and a dear and venerable visitor (no other than Dr. Coggeshall, of Astor Library fame), sitting before the fire in the twilight, was amazed by a sudden shower of boots tumbling down, one after another, into the ashes, whence he conscientiously rescued them with the tongs, at peril of receiving some on his good white head.

Such boots and shoes as escaped this fiery ordeal were tacked by Master Harry to the floor of the closets in the various rooms; and while he was in the closet, what could be easier or pleasanter than to cut off the pockets of the dresses hanging there? Altogether, Egypt was glad when Harry departed; and I do not think he made many more visits away from home, till he had outgrown the days of childhood.

At the age of six, Harry determined to marry, and offered his hand and heart to Mary, the nurse, an excellent woman some thirty years older than he. He sternly forbade her to sew or do other nursery work, saying that his wife must not work for her living. About this time, too, he told our mother that he thought he felt his beard growing.

He was just two years older than Laura, and the tie between them was very close. Laura’s first question to a stranger was always, “Does you know my bulla Hally? I hope you does!” and she was truly sorry for any one who had not that privilege.

The two children slept in tiny rooms adjoining each other. It was both easy and pleasant to “talk across” while lying in bed, when they were supposed to be sound asleep. Neither liked to give up the last word of greeting, and they would sometimes say “Good-night!” “Good-night!” over and over, backward and forward, for ten minutes together. In general, Harry was very kind to Laura, playing with her, and protecting her from any roughness of neighbor children. (They said “bunnit” and “apurn,” and “I wunt;” and we were fond of correcting them, which they not brooking, quarrels were apt to ensue.) But truth compels me to tell of one occasion on which Harry did not show a brotherly spirit. In the garden, under a great birch-tree, stood a trough for watering the horses. It was a large and deep trough, and always full of beautiful, clear water. It was pleasant to lean over the edge, and see the sky and the leaves of the tree reflected as if in a crystal mirror; to see one’s own rosy, freckled face, too, and make other faces; to see which could open eyes or mouth widest.

Now one day, as little Laura, being perhaps four years old, was hanging over the edge of the trough, forgetful of all save the delight of gazing, it chanced that Harry came up behind her; and the spirit of mischief that was always in him triumphed over brotherly affection, and he