Children's Book Classics - Kate Douglas Wiggin Edition: 11 Novels & 120+ Short Stories for Children. Kate Douglas Wiggin
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carelessness in making the hole, and remembering only her cleverness in covering it.”
“Capital!” said Margery; “it will be prettier than ever. Oh dear! that dress was new when we had our last lovely summer in the cañon. Shall we ever go again, all together, I wonder? Just think how we are all scattered,—the Winships traveling in Europe (I ‘ll read you Bell’s last letter by and by); Geoffrey Strong studying at Leipsic; Jack Howard at Harvard, with Elsie and her mother watching over him in Cambridge; Philip and I on the ranch as usual, and you here. We are so divided that it does n’t seem possible that we can ever have a complete reunion, does it?”
“No,” said Polly, looking dreamily at the humming-birds hovering over the honeysuckle; “and if we should, everything would be different. Bless dear old Bell’s heart! What a lovely summer she must be having! I wonder what she will do.”
“Do?” echoed Margery.
“Yes; it always seemed to me that Bell Winship would do something in the world; that she would never go along placidly like other girls, she has so many talents.”
“Yes; but so long as they have plenty of money, Dr. and Mrs. Winship would probably never encourage her in doing anything.”
“It would be all the better if she could do something because she loved it, and with no thought of earning a living by it. Is n’t it odd that I who most need the talents should have fewer than any one of our dear little group? Bell can write, sing, dance, or do anything else, in fact; Elsie can play like an angel; you can draw; but it seems to me I can do nothing well enough to earn money by it; and that is precisely what I must do.”
“You ‘ve never had any special instruction, Polly dear, else you could sing as well as Bell, or play as well as Elsie.”
“Well, I must soon decide. Mamma says next summer, when I am seventeen, she will try to spend a year in San Francisco and let me study regularly for some profession. The question is, what?—or whether to do something without study. I read in a magazine the other day that there are now three hundred or three thousand, I can’t remember which, vocations open to women. If it were even three hundred I could certainly choose one to my liking, and there would be two hundred and ninety-nine left over for the other girls. Mrs. Weeks is trying to raise silkworms. That would be rather nice, because the worms would be silent partners in the business and do most of the work.”
“But you want something without any risks, you know,” said Margery sagely. “You would have to buy ground for the silkworms, and set out the mulberries, and then a swarm of horrid insects might happen along and devour the plants before the worms began spinning.”
“‘Competition is the life of trade,’” said Polly. “No, that is n’t what I mean—‘Nothing venture, nothing have,’ that’s it. Then how would hens do? Ever so many women raise hens.”
“Hens have diseases, and they never lay very well when you have to sell the eggs. By the way, Clarence Jones, who sings in the choir,—you know, the man with the pink cheeks and corn-silk hair,—advertises in the ‘Daily Press’ for a ‘live partner.’ Now, there ‘s a chance on an established hen-ranch, if he does n’t demand capital or experience.”
“It’s a better chance for Miss Ferguson. But she does n’t like Mr. Jones, because when he comes to call, his coat-pockets are always bulging with brown paper packages of a hen-food that he has just invented. The other day, when he came to see her, she was out, and he handed me his card. It had a picture and advertisement of ‘The Royal Dish-faced Berkshire Pig’ on it; and I ‘m sure, by her expression when she saw it, that she will never be his ‘live partner.’ No, I don’t think I ‘ll have an out-of-door occupation, it’s so trying to the complexion. Now, how about millinery? I could be an apprentice, and gradually rise until I imported everything direct from Paris.”
“But, Polly,” objected Margery, “you know you never could tie a bow, or even put a ribbon on your sailor hat.”
“But I could learn. Do you suppose all the milliners were called to their work by a consciousness of genius? Perish the thought! If that were true, there wouldn’t be so many hideous hats in the shop windows. However, I don’t pine for millinery; it’s always a struggle for me to wear a hat myself.”
“You ‘ve done beautifully the last year or two, dear, and you ‘ve reaped the reward of virtue, for you ‘ve scarcely a freckle left.”
“Oh, that isn’t hats,” rejoined Polly, “that’s the law of compensation. When I was younger, and did n’t take the boarders so much to heart, I had freckles given to me for a cross; but the moment I grew old enough to see the boarders in their true light and note their effect on mamma, the freckles disappeared. Now, here ‘s an idea. I might make a complexion lotion for a living. Let me see what I ‘ve been advised by elderly ladies to use in past years: ammonia, lemon-juice, cucumbers, morning dew, milk, pork rinds, kerosene, and a few other household remedies. Of course I ‘m not sure which did the work, but why could n’t I mix them all in equal parts,—if they would mix, you know, and let those stay out that would n’t,—and call it the ‘Olivera Complexion Lotion’? The trade-mark might be a cucumber, a lemon, and a morning dew-drop, rampant, and a frightened little brown spot couchant. Then on the neat label pasted on the bottles above the trade-mark there might be a picture of a spotted girl,—that’s Miss Oliver before using her lotion,—and a copy of my last photograph,—that’s Miss Oliver radiant in beauty after using her lotion.”
Margery laughed, as she generally did at Polly’s nonsense.
“That sounds very attractive, but if you are anxious for an elegant and dignified occupation which shall restore your mother to her ancestral position, it certainly has its defects.”
“I know everything has its defects, everything except one, and I won’t believe that has a single weak point.”
“Oh, Polly, you deceiver! You have a secret leaning toward some particular thing, after all!”
“Yes; though I have n’t talked it over fully yet, even with mamma, lest she should think it one of my wild schemes; but, Margery, I want with all my heart to be a kindergartner like Miss Mary Denison. There would be no sting to me in earning my living, if only I could do it by working among poor, ragged, little children, as she does. I run in and stay half an hour with her whenever I can, and help the babies with their sewing or weaving, and I always study and work better myself afterward,—I don’t know whether it’s the children, or Miss Denison, or the place, or all three. And the other day, when I was excused from my examinations, I stayed the whole morning in the kindergarten. When it was time for the games, and they were all on the circle, they began with a quiet play they call ‘Silent Greeting,’ and oh, Margery, they chose me to come in, of their own accord! When I walked into the circle to greet that smallest Walker baby my heart beat like a trip-hammer, I was so afraid I should do something wrong, and they would never ask me in again. Then we played ‘The Hen and Chickens,’ and afterward something about the birds in the greenwood; and one of the make-believe birds flew to me (I was a tree, you know, a whispering elm-tree), and built its nest in my branches, and then I smoothed its feathers and sang to it as the others had done, and it was like heaven! After the play was over, we modeled clay birds; and just as we were making the tables tidy, Professor Hohlweg came in and asked Miss Denison to come into the large hall to play for the marching, as the music-teacher was absent. Then what did Miss Denison do but turn to me and say, ‘Miss Oliver, you get on so nicely with the children, would you mind telling them some little story for me? I shall be gone only ten or fifteen minutes.’ Oh, Margery, it was awful! I was more frightened than when I was asked to come into the circle; but the children clapped their hands and cried, ‘Yes, yes, tell us a story!’ I could only think of ‘The Hen that Hatched Ducks,’ but I sat down and began, and, as I talked, I took my clay bird and molded it into a hen, so that they would look at me whether they listened or not. Of course, one of the big seven-year-old boys began to whisper and be restless, but I handed him a large lump of clay and asked him to make a nest and some eggs for my hen, and that soon absorbed his attention. They listened so nicely,—you