Just here we must beg any mother and housekeeper to imagine herself in the very midst of the most delicate, perplexing and laborious of household tasks, when interruption is most irksome and perilous, suddenly called to discuss with a child some new and startling proposition to which at the moment she cannot even give a thought.
Mrs. Cushing was sitting in the kitchen with Mis’ Persis, by the side of a caldron of melted tallow, kept in a fluid state by the heat of a portable furnace on which it stood. A long train of half-dipped candles hung like so many stalactites from the frames on which the rods rested, and the two were patiently dipping set after set and replacing them again on the frame.
“As sure as I’m alive! if there isn’t Dolly Cushing comin’ back — runnin’ and tearin’ like a wild cretur’,” said Mis’ Persis. “She’ll be in here in a minute and knock everything down!”
Mrs. Cushing looked, and with a quick movement stepped to the door.
“Dolly! what are you here for? Didn’t I tell you not to come home this noon?”
“Oh, mamma, there’s going to be a party at General Lewis’ — Bessie’s party — and the girls are all going; mayn’t I go?”
“No, you can’t; it’s impossible,” said her mother. “Your best dress isn’t ready to wear, and there’s nobody can spend time to get you ready. Go right back to school.”
“But, mamma—”
“Go!” said her mother, in the decisive tone that mothers used in the old days, when arguing with children was not a possibility.
“What’s all this about?” asked the Doctor, looking out of the door.
“Why,” said Mrs. Cushing, “there’s going to be a party at General Lewis’, and Dolly is wild to go. It’s just impossible for me to attend to her now.”
“Oh, I don’t want her intimate at Lewis’s,” said the Doctor, and immediately he came out behind his wife.
“There; run away to school, Dolly,” he said. “Don’t trouble your mother; you don’t want to go to parties; why, it’s foolish to think of it. Run away now, and don’t think any more about it — there’s a good girl!”
Dolly turned and went back to school, the tears freezing on her cheek as she went. As for not thinking any more about it — that was impossible.
When three o’clock came, scholar after scholar rose and departed, until at last Dolly was the only one remaining in the school-room.
When Dolly came home that night the coast was clear, and the candles were finished and put away to harden in a freezing cold room; the kitchen was once more restored, and Nabby bustled about getting supper as if nothing had happened.
“I really feel sorry about poor little Dolly,” said Mrs. Cushing to her husband.
“Do you think she cared much?” asked the Doctor, looking as if a new possibility had struck his mind.
“Yes, indeed, poor child, she went away crying; but what could I do about it? I couldn’t stop to dress her.”
“Wife, we must take her somewhere to make up for it,” said the Doctor.
Just then the stage stopped at the door and a bundle from Boston was handed in. Dolly’s tears were soon wiped and dried, and her mourning was turned into joy when a large jointed London doll emerged from the bundle, the Christmas gift of her grandmother in Boston.
Dolly’s former darling was old and shabby, but this was of twice the size, and with cheeks exhibiting a state of the most florid health.
Besides this there was, as usual in grandmamma’s Christmas bundle, something for every member of the family; and so the evening went on festive wings.
Poor little Dolly! only that afternoon she had watered with her tears, at school, the dismal long straight seam, which stretched on before her as life sometimes does to us, bare, disagreeable and cheerless. She had come home crying, little dreaming of the joy just approaching; but before bed-time no cricket in the hearth was cheerier or more noisy. She took the new dolly to bed with her, and could hardly sleep, for the excitement of her company.
Meanwhile, Hiel had brought the Doctor a message to the following effect:
“I was drivin’ by Tim Hawkins’, and Mis’ Hawkins she comes out and says they’re goin’ to hev an apple-cuttin’ there to-morrow night, and she would like to hev you and Mis’ Cushin’ and all your folks come — Nabby and all.”
The Doctor and his lady of course assented.
“Wal, then, Doctor — ef it’s all one to you,” continued Hiel, “I’d like to take ye over in my new double sleigh. I’ve jest got two new strings o’ bells up from Boston, and I think we’ll sort o’ make the snow fly. S’pose there’d be no objections to takin’ my mother ‘long with ye?”
“Oh, Hiel, we shall be delighted to go in company with your mother, and we’re ever so much obliged to you,” said Mrs. Cushing.
“Wal, I’ll be round by six o’clock,” said Hiel.
“Then, wife,” said the Doctor, “we’ll take Dolly, and make up for the loss of her party.”
Punctually at six, Hiel’s two horses, with all their bells jingling, stood at the door of the parsonage, whence Tom and Bill, who had been waiting with caps and mittens on for the last half hour, burst forth with irrepressible shouts of welcome.
“Take care now, boys; don’t haul them buffalo skins out on t’ the snow,” said Hiel. “Don’t get things in a muss gen’ally; wait for your ma and the Doctor. Got to stow the grown folks in fust; boys kin hang on anywhere.”
And so first came Mrs. Cushing and the Doctor, and were installed on the back seat, with Dolly in between. Then hot bricks were handed in to keep feet warm, and the buffalo robe was tucked down securely. Then Nabby took her seat by Hiel in front, and the sleigh drove round for old Mrs. Jones. The Doctor insisted on giving up his place to her and tucking her warmly under the buffalo robe, while he took the middle seat and acted as moderator between the boys, who were in a wild state of hilarity. Spring, with explosive barks, raced first on this and then on that side of the sleigh as it flew swiftly over the smooth frozen road.
The stars blinked white and clear out of a deep blue sky, and the path wound up-hill among cedars and junipers and clumps of mountain laurel, on whose broad green leaves the tufts of snow lay like clusters of white roses. The keen clear air was full of stimulus and vigor; and so Hiel’s proposition to take the longest way met with enthusiastic welcome from all the party. Next to being a bird, and having wings, is the sensation of being borne over the snow by a pair of spirited horses who enjoy the race, apparently, as much as those they draw. Though Hiel contrived to make the ride about eight miles, it yet seemed but a short time before the party drove up to the great red farmhouse, whose lighted windows sent streams of radiant welcome far out into the night.
Our little Dolly had had an evening of unmixed bliss. Everybody had petted her, and talked to her, and been delighted with her sayings and doings, and she was carrying home a paper parcel of sweet things which good Mrs. Hawkins had forced into her hand at parting. She had spent a really happy Christmas!
LITTLE CAPTAIN TROTT
IT has become fashionable to write sketches of the lives of really existing worthies, who are at present acting their parts with more or less success on the stage of this mortal life. Among them all there is none who, as we think, exerts a more perceptible influence, makes more commotion, more confusion, more comfort, more perplexity, more laughing, and more crying than our sprightly, ingenious, omnipresent, ever-active little friend, Captain Trott.
His title indicates that he is in a position of responsibility and command. Nobody would infer this, from his short body, his dumpy little hands, and his square, padding little feet, his curly head, his ivory-fine complexion, and his rather singular modes of treating the English language; yet, should the question be put at this moment by the electric telegraph, to the million families of our land, “Who governs and rules you?” the reply would come back, as with the voice of many waters, “Little Trott.” Little Trott has more influence at this hour in these United States than General Gr
ant himself!
In giving a sketch of his personal appearance, we are embarrassed by the remembrance of the overweening admiration he always contrives to excite in the breasts of the feminine part of creation. A million women, we do believe, at this very hour, if we should draw his picture, would be ready to tear our eyes out for the injustice done him. That the picture of our little Trott, forsooth? What is the woman thinking of? She does not know, she never can know, she had no senses to perceive, half how beautiful he is! So say all the mothers; and the grandmothers double-say it, and are ready to shoot you if you doubt it; and the aunties and sisters reiterate it; and even the papas —— who, as heads of the women and lords of creation, are supposed to take more sensible and impartial views of matters and things — go hook and line, bob and sinker into the general current. The papas are, if anything, even sillier and more beside themselves with admiration than the mammas. Trott is, in their eyes, a miracle of nature. They gaze at him with round eyes of wonder; they are really ashamed of themselves for their inebriate state of admiration, and endeavor to draw over it a veil of reticent gravity; but it leaks out of every cranny, and oozes out of every pore, that the man is, as oar negro friends say, “done gone over” in admiration of little Trott. His administration, therefore, is a highly popular one, and we run some risk in instituting anything like a criticism upon it. There is, of course, as in all popular governments, an opposition party, composed principally of older brothers and sisters, crabbed old bachelors, and serious-minded maiden ladies, who feel it their duty, with varying success, to keep up a protest against Trott’s proceedings, and to call on his besotted admirers to be on their guard against his wiles, and even go so far as to prophesy that, if not well looked after, he may one day ruin the country. Under these circumstances, it is a delicate matter to deliver our opinion of Trott, but we shall endeavor to do it with impartial justice. We shall speak our honest opinion of his accomplishments, his virtues, and his vices, be the consequences what they may.
And first we think that nobody can refuse to Captain Trott the award of industry and energy.
He is energy itself. He believes in early rising, and, like all others who practice this severe virtue, is of opinion that it is a sin for anybody to sleep after he is awake. Therefore he commences to whistle and crow, and pick open the eyes of papa and mamma with his fat fingers, long before “Aurora crimsons the east,” as the poet says. For those hapless sinners who love the dear iniquity of morning naps Trott has no more mercy than a modern reformer; and, like a modem reformer, he makes no exceptions for circumstances. If he is wide-awake and refreshed, it makes no difference to him that mamma was up half a dozen times the night before to warm his milk and perform other handmaid offices for his lordship; or that papa was late at his office, and did not get asleep till twelve o’clock. Up they must get; laziness is not to be indulged; morning naps are an abomination to his soul; and he wants his breakfast at the quickest conceivable moment, that he may enter on the duty of the day.
This duty may be briefly defined as the process of cultivating the heavenly virtue of patience in the mind of his mother and of the family and the community generally. He commences the serious avocations of the day after a shower of kisses, adorned by fleeting dimples and sparkling glances. While mamma is hastily dressing, he slyly upsets the wash-pitcher on the carpet, and sits a pleased spectator of the instant running and fussing which is the result. If there is a box of charcoal tooth-powder within reach, he now contrives to force that open and scatter its contents over his nightgown and the carpet, thus still further increasing the confusion. If he is scolded, he immediately falls on his mother’s neck, and smothers her with sooty kisses. While taking his bath, he insists on sucking the sponge, and splashing the water all over his mother’s neat morning-wrapper. If this process is stopped, he shows the strength of his lungs in violent protests, which so alarm the poor woman for the character of the family, that she is forced to compromise with him by letting him have a bright pincashion, or her darling gold watch, or some other generally forbidden object to console him. This, of course, he splashes into the water forthwith, and fights her if she attempts to take it away; for Trott is a genuine red republican in the doctrine of his own right to have his own way. Then he follows her up through the day, knowing exactly when and where to put himself in her way, in fulfilment of his important mission of perfecting her in patience. If she be going up-stairs with baby in her arms, Trott catches her about the knees, or hangs on to her gown behind, with most persistent affection.
In the kitchen, if she be superintending verdant Erin in the preparation of some mysterious dish, Trott must be there, and Trott must help. With infinite fussing and tiptoe efforts, he pulls over on his head a pan of syrup, — and the consequences of this movement all our female friends see without words.
Is there company to dinner, and no dessert, and stupid Biddy utterly unable to compass the difficulties of a boiled custard, then mamma is to the fore, and Trott also. Just at the critical moment, — the moment of projection, — a loud scream from Trott announces that he has fallen head first into the rain-water butt! The custard is spoiled, but the precious darling Trott is saved, and wiped up, and comes out, fresh and glowing, to proclaim to his delighted admirers that he still lives.
Thus much on Trott’s energy and industry, but who shall describe the boundless versatility of his genius? Versatility is Trott’s forte. In one single day he will bring to pass a greater variety of operations than are even thought of in Congress, — much as they may do there, — and he is so persevering and industrious about it!
He has been known, while mamma is busy over some bit of fine work at her sewing-machine, to pad into the pantry and contrive machinery for escalading the flour-barrel, which has enabled him at last to plump himself fairly into the soft, downy interior, which he can now throw up over his head in chuckling transport, powdering his curls till he looks like a cherub upon a Louis Quatorze china teacup. Taken out, while his mother is looking for fresh clothes in the drawer, he hastens to plunge his head into the washbowl to clean it. He besets pussy, who runs at the very sight of him. He has often tried to perform surgical operations on her eyes with mamma’s scissors; but pussy, having no soul to save, has no interest in being made perfect through suffering, and therefore gives him a wide berth. Nevertheless, Trott sometimes catches her asleep, and once put her head downward into a large stone water-jar, before she had really got enough awake to comprehend the situation. Her tail, convulsively waving as a signal of distress, alone called attention to the case, and deprived her of the honor of an obituary notice. But, mind you, had pussy died, what mamma and grandma and auntie would not have taken Trott’s part against all the pussies in the world? “Poor little fellow! he must do something;” and “After all, the cat wasn’t much of a mouser; served her right; and wasn’t it cunning of him?” And, my dear friend, if Trott some day, when you are snoozing after dinner, should take a fancy to serve you as Jael did Sisera, your fate would scarcely excite any other comment. The “poor dear little fellow” would still be the hero of the house, and you the sinner, who had no business to put yourself in his way. This last sentence was interpolated here by my crabbed bachelor uncle, Mr. Herod Killchild, who cannot, of course, be considered as dispassionate authority. In fact, an open feud rages between Uncle Herod and Trott; and he only holds his position in the family circle because the womenfolks are quick-witted enough to perceive that, after all, he is in his heart as silly about Trott as any of them. He has more than once been detected watching the little captain’s antics over the top of his newspaper, and slyly snickering to himself as he followed his operations while at the same moment his month was ostensibly full of cursing and bitterness. Once, when Trott was very, very sick indeed, Uncle Herod lost his rest nights, — he declared it was only indigestion; his eyes watered, — he declared that it was only a severe cold. But all these symptoms marvelously disappeared when Trott, as his manner is, suddenly got well and came out good a
s new, and tenfold more busy and noisy than ever. Then Uncle Herod remarked dryly that “he had hoped to be rid of that torment,” and mamma laughed. Who minds Uncle Herod?
We have spoken of Troths industry, energy, and versatility; we must speak also of his perseverance. This is undeniably a great virtue, as all my readers who have ever written in old-fashioned copy-books will remember. Trott’s persistence and determination to carry his points and have his own way are traits that must excite the respect of the beholder.
When he has a point to carry, it must be a wise mamma, and a still wiser papa, that can withstand him, for his ways and wiles are past finding out. He tries all means and measures, — kissing, cajoling, coaxing; and, these proving ineffectual, storming, crying, threatening, fighting fate with both of his chubby fists, and squaring off at the powers that be with a valor worthy of a soldier.
There are the best hopes of the little captain, if he keeps up equal courage and vigor, some future day, when he shall lead the armies of the republic.
If, however, Trott is routed, as sometimes occurs, it is to be said to his credit that he displays great magnanimity. He will come up and kiss and be friends, after a severe skirmish with papa, and own himself beaten in the handsomest manner.
But, like a true, cunning politician, when beaten, he does not give up. There is many a reserved wile under his mat of curls yet, and he still meditates some future victory; and, sooth to say, after a running fire of some weeks, Trott often carries his point, and establishes his right to take certain household liberties, in spite of the protest of the whole family republic.
“Well, what can you do with him? we can’t be fighting him always,” are the usual terms which announce the surrender.
And did not our Congress do about the same thing with President Johnson? The fact is, when you’ve got a chief magistrate, you can’t fight him all the time, and Trott is the chief magistrate of the family state.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 652
