An Old-Fashioned Girl. Луиза Мэй Олкотт

are lovely; but I don’t believe they will feel good, for I shall be thinking about my lost presents all the time,” sighed Polly, pushing the enticing boots out of sight. “I’ll go and ask grandma what I can do; for if I’ve got to make something for everyone, I must begin right away, or I shan’t get done;” and off she bustled, glad to forget her remorse in hard work.

      Grandma proved equal to the emergency, and planned something for everyone, supplying materials, taste, and skill in the most delightful manner. Polly felt much comforted; but while she began to knit a pretty pair of white bed-socks, to be tied with rose-colored ribbons, for her mother, she thought some very sober thoughts upon the subject of temptation; and if anyone had asked her just then what made her sigh, as if something lay heavy on her conscience, she would have answered, “Bronze boots.”

      Chapter 4

      Little Things

      “It’s so wainy, I can’t go out, and evwybody is so cwoss they won’t play with me,” said Maud, when Polly found her fretting on the stairs, and paused to ask the cause of her wails.

      “I’ll play with you; only don’t scream and wake your mother. What shall we play?”

      “I don’t know; I’m tired of evwything, ’cause my toys are all bwoken, and my dolls are all sick but Clawa,” moaned Maud, giving a jerk to the Paris doll which she held upside down by one leg in the most unmaternal manner.

      “I’m going to dress a dolly for my little sister; wouldn’t you like to see me do it?” asked Polly, persuasively, hoping to beguile the cross child and finish her own work at the same time.

      “No, I shouldn’t, ’cause she’ll look nicer than my Clawa. Her clothes won’t come off; and Tom spoilt ’em playing ball with her in the yard.”

      “Wouldn’t you like to rip these clothes off, and have me show you how to make some new ones, so you can dress and undress Clara as much as you like?”

      “Yes; I love to cut.” And Maud’s face brightened; for destructiveness is one of the earliest traits of childhood, and ripping was Maud’s delight.

      Establishing themselves in the deserted dining room, the children fell to work; and when Fanny discovered them, Maud was laughing with all her heart at poor Clara, who, denuded of her finery, was cutting up all sorts of capers in the hands of her merry little mistress.

      “I should think you’d be ashamed to play with dolls, Polly. I haven’t touched one this ever so long,” said Fanny, looking down with a superior air.

      “I ain’t ashamed, for it keeps Maud happy, and will please my sister Kitty; and I think sewing is better than prinking or reading silly novels, so, now.” And Polly stitched away with a resolute air, for she and Fanny had had a little tiff, because Polly wouldn’t let her friend do up her hair “like other folks,” and bore her ears.

      “Don’t be cross, dear, but come and do something nice, it’s so dull today,” said Fanny, anxious to be friends again, for it was doubly dull without Polly.

      “Can’t; I’m busy.”

      “You always are busy. I never saw such a girl. What in the world do you find to do all the time?” asked Fanny, watching with interest the set of the little red merino frock Polly was putting on to her doll.

      “Lots of things; but I like to be lazy sometimes as much as you do; just lie on the sofa, and read fairy stories, or think about nothing. Would you have a white muslin apron or a black silk?” added Polly, surveying her work with satisfaction.

      “Muslin, with pockets and tiny blue bows. I’ll show you how.” And forgetting her late contempt for dolls, down sat Fanny, soon getting as much absorbed as either of the others.

      The dull day brightened wonderfully after that, and the time flew pleasantly, as tongues and needles went together. Grandma peeped in, and smiled at the busy group, saying, “Sew away, my dears; dollies are safe companions, and needlework an accomplishment that’s sadly neglected nowadays. Small stitches, Maud; neat buttonholes, Fan; cut carefully, Polly, and don’t waste your cloth. Take pains; and the best needlewoman shall have a pretty bit of white satin for a doll’s bonnet.”

      Fanny exerted herself, and won the prize, for Polly helped Maud, and neglected her own work; but she didn’t care much, for Mr. Shaw said, looking at the three bright faces at the tea table, “I guess Polly has been making sunshine for you today.”

      “No, indeed, sir, I haven’t done anything, only dress Maud’s doll.”

      And Polly didn’t think she had done much; but it was one of the little things which are always waiting to be done in this world of ours, where rainy days come so often, where spirits get out of tune, and duty won’t go hand in hand with pleasure. Little things of this sort are especially good work for little people; a kind little thought, an unselfish little act, a cheery little word, are so sweet and comfortable, that no one can fail to feel their beauty and love the giver, no matter how small they are. Mothers do a deal of this sort of thing, unseen, unthanked, but felt and remembered long afterward, and never lost, for this is the simple magic that binds hearts together, and keeps home happy. Polly had learned this secret. She loved to do the “little things” that others did not see, or were too busy to stop for; and while doing them, without a thought of thanks, she made sunshine for herself as well as others. There was so much love in her own home, that she quickly felt the want of it in Fanny’s, and puzzled herself to find out why these people were not kind and patient to one another. She did not try to settle the question, but did her best to love and serve and bear with each; and the good will, the gentle heart, the helpful ways and simple manners of our Polly made her dear to everyone, for these virtues, even in a little child, are lovely and attractive.

      Mr. Shaw was very kind to her, for he liked her modest, respectful manners; and Polly was so grateful for his many favors, that she soon forgot her fear, and showed her affection in all sorts of confiding little ways, which pleased him extremely. She used to walk across the park with him when he went to his office in the morning, talking busily all the way, and saying “Good-by” with a nod and a smile when they parted at the great gate. At first, Mr. Shaw did not care much about it; but soon he missed her if she didn’t come, and found that something fresh and pleasant seemed to brighten all his day, if a small, gray-coated figure, with an intelligent face, a merry voice, and a little hand slipped confidingly into his, went with him through the wintry park. Coming home late, he liked to see a curly, brown head watching at the window; to find his slippers ready, his paper in its place, and a pair of willing feet, eager to wait upon him. “I wish my Fanny was more like her,” he often said to himself, as he watched the girls while they thought him deep in politics or the state of the money market. Poor Mr. Shaw had been so busy getting rich, that he had not found time to teach his children to love him; he was more at leisure now, and as his boy and girls grew up, he missed something. Polly was unconsciously showing him what it was, and making child-love so sweet, that he felt he could not do without it any more, yet didn’t quite know how to win the confidence of the children, who had always found him busy, indifferent, and absentminded.

      As the girls were going to bed one night, Polly kissed grandma, as usual, and Fanny laughed at her, saying, “What a baby you are! We are too old for such things now.”

      “I don’t think people ever are too old to kiss their fathers and mothers,” was the quick answer.

      “Right, my little Polly;” and Mr. Shaw stretched out his hand to her with such a kindly look, that Fanny stared surprised, and then said, shyly, “I thought you didn’t care about it, father.”

      “I do, my dear.” And Mr. Shaw put out the other hand to Fanny, who gave him a daughterly kiss, quite forgetting everything but the tender feeling that sprung up in her heart at the renewal of the childish custom which we never need outgrow.

      Mrs. Shaw was a nervous, fussy invalid, who wanted something every five minutes; so Polly found plenty of small things to do for her, and did them so cheerfully, that the poor lady loved to have the quiet, helpful child near, to wait upon her, read to her, run errands, or hand the seven different shawls which were continually being put on or off.

      Grandma,