HIGH times at Prairie-rose Cottage,—high times indeed! For there is cousin Floy Plummer on her tiptoes; and there is little Effie Plummer hurrying with might and main to climb to the top of the bureau; and there are the twins, the Jimmyjohn Plummers, scrambling both at once into the baby’s dining-chair, tumbling over the back like one boy, then dividing at the bottom and going up again like two boys: and all these trying to pinch Annetta Plummer’s ears, and to pinch them seven times too; for Annetta Plummer is seven years old this very day.
Ever since morning, a little girl may have been seen holding two hands to two ears, scampering up stairs and down stairs, dodging into dark corners, behind doors, behind curtains, behind people, racing through the garden, hiding among the currant-bushes, among the grass, among the waving corn, in the barn, in the hen-house, up the apple-tree, up the ladder; and always have gone some of the pinchers after her, with seven pinches apiece in their thumbs and fingers. And now, will climbing that table save Miss Seven-year-old?
Hark! Rover is barking outside! O Rover! don’t you know any better than to bark at the party,—Annetta’s birthday-party? Look at old Bose, and learn how to behave. Old Bose never barks at company; and he is six times bigger than you are, you little, noisy, capering, frisky, frolicsome Rover! Now the Jimmyjohns run to call off their dog. “Here, Rover! Here, ere, ere, ere! Rove, Rove, Rove!”
And now the company have come in, and have taken off their things, and have told Mrs. Plummer how their mothers do, and have sat down quietly in a row of chairs. Seven of them,—seven bright faces so rosy and sweet! seven heads of hair so smooth or so curly! seven pairs of tidy boots, best ones, perhaps,—who knows but brand-new? The Jimmyjohns, too, have on their new, slippery, smooth-bottomed button-boots; and that was the reason of their falling down while they stood almost still, or rather more than half still, watching the seven little girls sitting in a row.
Ten minutes later. All out on the green spot, where it is shady, playing “Little Sally Waters sitting in the sun.” Josephus the baby (called Josephus while waiting for his real name) stays in his baby-carriage, hearing them sing, watching the ring go round, laughing, crowing, patting cakes by the dozen. When the Jimmies choose the one that they love best before they close their eyes to rest, Rover rushes into the middle, barking, leaping high, as if he, too, were going to kiss the one that he loved best.
Fifteen minutes later. They are playing “Pretty fair maid.” Dear, dear! what a charming singsong goes with this play! What a lively, chirruping tune! “Pretty fair maid, will you come up, will you come up, will you come up, to join us in our dances.” “And now we’ve got the Queen of May, the Queen of May, the Queen of May, to join us in our dances.” And then the last part, “Green grow the rushes O! Never mind the blushes O!” Ah! who would not be a little girl at a party, singing “Pretty fair maid” on the green spot?
Half an hour later. All out in the orchard, playing “keep house.” They divide themselves into “families.” There is one very large flat rock in the orchard, also several hollow places where rocks have been dug out. Two of the “families” take each a hollow to live in; a third “keeps house” on the rock, a fourth under a haycock. Oh, what good times! Only two families can have “fathers,” because there are only two boys. The other “fathers,” cousin Floy says, have gone to Boston. Cousin Floy manages this play. She is ten years old, and knows how. Cousin Floy goes in to coax Mrs. Plummer for some things in which to dress up the “fathers” and “mothers.” She says it will do if the heads look like fathers’ and mothers’ heads, and no matter about the clothes. Mrs. Plummer lends two head-dresses, also ribbons and laces. Grandmother Plummer lends a cap and black ribbon. Who’ll be the “grandmother,” I wonder. Minnie Lowe, the little girl with the flossy curls. Oh, what a cunning grandmother!—Down, Rover, down! What! barking at your grandmother, you saucy little puppy?
“Ha, ha! He, he! Ha, ha! He, he! Ho, ho!” And who wouldn’t laugh at seeing Jimmy Plummer in a high dicky, black whiskers, and tall hat? The hat touches his shoulders behind. Ah! that is better. Cousin Floy has taken off the hat, and put on a great deal of black hair pulled from an old cushion; yes, a great deal,—as much as a quarter of a peck. It rises high on his head, and—What ails Rover? Ha, ha! Pretty good! Rover doesn’t know Jimmy!
Well, well, well! Grandfather forever! They are going to have Johnny a grandfather! Cousin Floy is covering his head with cotton-wool for white hair. Now she gives him a cane. Now go on the spectacles. Now she is—doing—something—I cannot—see—what. Oh, yes, yes, yes! putting a hump under his frock, between his shoulders, to give him a stoop. Bark away, Rover! Who wouldn’t bark at a cotton-wool grandfather?
Annetta has been in to the house, and is bringing out all her rag-babies. To be sure; for now there can be a baby in every family. One of these is very large, and has a face as big round as a pint porringer; but the others are quite small. The large one is named Joey Moonbeam. This is a true picture of Joey Moonbeam, copied from her likeness now hanging in Annetta Plummer’s baby-house. The largest of the small rag-babies is named Dorothy Beeswax. She is a little taller than a knitting-needle. This is a true picture of Dorothy Beeswax. The next largest is Betsey Ginger. The next is Jenny Popover. The next is Eudora N. Posy. The “N.” stands for Nightingale. The next is Susan Sugarspoon. This is a true picture of Betsey Ginger. Susan Sugarspoon, and Jenny Popover, and Eudora N. Posy, have not had their pictures taken yet. The smallest of all is Polly Cologne,—the smallest, the prettiest, and the cunningest. Her cheeks are painted pink, and she wears a locket. Her hair is of flax-colored floss-silk, while the hair of all the others is stocking-ravellings. She is the baby of the baby-house, and this is her true and exact picture. Polly Cologne has feet; but the others stand on their stiff petticoats.
Now comes Mrs. Plummer, with seed-cakes for the housekeepers to play supper with; and behind her comes cousin Floy, bringing cinnamon-water, and dishes from the baby-house. The cinnamon-water is in four phials. Each phial has in it sugar, and also rose-leaves.
What are the children laughing and whispering about? and why do they look at little Fanny Brimmer in such a way? Mrs. Plummer has called Annetta aside with one or two others, and is asking why they do so.
“Because,” whispers little Lulu, “Fanny picked out—the biggest—seed-cakes—that had the most—sugar-plums—on the tops.”
Mrs. Plummer tells them, speaking very low, that perhaps Fanny did not know it was selfish to do so; that her mother might never have told her. “Selfish girls,” says Mrs. Plummer, “should be pitied, not laughed at; and besides, perhaps every one of you may be selfish in some other way.”
Half-past four o’clock. What is going on now? Oh! I see. The “family” at the rock are having a party, and to this party have come the “families” from the hollows and the haycock.—No, Rover, you were not invited. Down, sir!—down!
The supper is laid out on the rock. The cinnamon-water is poured into the cups, each cup holding half a thimbleful. Grandfather Johnny and grandmother Minnie sit at the head, and father Jimmy at the foot; while the mothers with their little girls fill the room between. The mothers wear head-dresses. The little girls wear dandelion-curls, and curls of shavings. Only one of the babies is allowed to come to the table, and that is Polly Cologne. The others sit on the floor, and play with their playthings. Joey Moonbeam can come to table, because she is big enough. They call Joey Moonbeam a little girl three years old, that cannot walk, because she has had a fever. Polly Cologne seems to be a pet among all these mothers and little girls. They all want to hold her. Why, by their talk, one might suppose she was a live baby. Hear them. “O little darling!” “Just as cunning!” “Dear ’ittle baby!” “Did zee want some payzings?” “Tum to oor mozzer, oo darling!” “Do let me hold her!” “No, let me, let me!” “Me!” And so she is passed from one to another, and kissed and stroked and patted, and talked to. Really the birthday-party is having a good time. Ah! who would not be a little girl playing supper on a rock, out among the apple-trees, and sipping cinnamon-water?
But, dear, dear! what is the matter? Why do they all jump down in a hurry, and scream and shout, and run after Rover? What! Polly Cologne? Rover gone off with Polly Cologne in his mouth? Yes, Rover has. There he goes, scampering away, and all the children after him, calling, “Here, here, ere, ere, ere! Back, sir! back!” The Jimmyjohns slip with their smooth-bottomed boots, and down they go; and off go wigs, whiskers, and all! Now they’re up again, shouting to Rover, “Here, Rover!—here, Rover! Drop it, drop it! Rove, Rove! Come back!”
But Rove won’t hear, and won’t come back. He’s out of the orchard, across the meadow, over the brook; and now—and now he has gone into the woods! Oh, dear, dear!
Four days later. Orchard, wood, brook, and meadow have been searched; but the lost is not yet found. Annetta is quite sad. She has put away Polly Cologne’s every-day locket and every-day clothes, and blue silk sun-bonnet, because it made her feel badly to see them.
Dear little Polly Cologne, where are you now? Lost in the woods? And are the Robin Redbreasts covering you over with leaves? Perhaps naughty Rover buried you up like a meat-bone in the cold, damp ground, or dropped you in the brook,—and, alas! you could never swim ashore. Did those bright-spotted trout eat you? or did you float away to the sea? Perhaps you did float away to the sea. Perhaps you are now far out on the mighty ocean, where the wild winds blow, and there, all alone, toss up and down, up and down, on the rolling waves; or perhaps the waves and the winds are at rest, and the sea is smooth like a sea of glass, and you lie quietly there, with your pink cheeks turned up to the sky. Or the mermaids may take you down into their sea-caverns all lined with rose-colored shells, and sing you sweet songs till your hair turns green. Or who knows but you may float away to Northland, and be picked up on shore by the little funny, furry Esquimaux children? Oh, if you should be frozen solid in an iceberg there! But it may be you have drifted down to the sunny islands of the South, where the people have few clothes, no houses, no schools; and then some little, half-naked, dusky child may pick you up from among the coral and sea-shells, and show you to its mother, and say, “Mother, where do this kind of folks live?” And its mother, not having studied geography, may say, “Oh! in a wonderful country close by the moon.”
Yes, let us hope that Polly Cologne has been wafted to those sunny summer-lands of the South, where oranges grow, and prunes, and bananas; where the palm-tree waves, and geraniums grow wild; where the air is balmy; where snow never comes, nor ice, nor frost; where bright-winged birds warble in the groves; where trees are forever green, and flowers bloom through all the year.