Children's Book Classics - Kate Douglas Wiggin Edition: 11 Novels & 120+ Short Stories for Children. Kate Douglas Wiggin
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come back. At last my eye fell on the blackboard, and that gave me an idea. I drew a hen’s beak and then a duck’s, a hen’s foot and then a duck’s, to show them the difference. Just then Miss Denison came in softly, and I confess I was bursting with pride and delight. There was the blackboard with the sketches, not very good ones, it is true, the clay hen and nest and eggs, and all the children sitting quietly in their wee red chairs. And Miss Denison said, ‘How charming of you to carry out the idea of the morning so nicely! My dear little girl, you were made for this sort of thing, did you know it?’”
“Well, I should n’t think you had patience enough for any sort of teaching,” said Margery candidly.
“Neither did I suppose so myself, and I have n’t any patience to spare, that is, for boarders, or dishes, or beds; but I love children so dearly that they never try my patience as other things do.”
“You have had the play side of the kindergarten, Polly, while Miss Denison had the care. There must be a work-a-day side to it; I’m sure Miss Denison very often looks tired to death.”
“Of course!” cried Polly. “I know it ‘s hard work; but who cares whether a thing is hard or not, if one loves it? I don’t mind work; I only mind working at something I dislike and can never learn to like. Why, Margery, at the Sunday-school picnics you go off in the broiling sun and sit on a camp-chair and sketch, while I play Fox and Geese with the children, and each of us pities the other and thinks she must be dying with heat. It ‘s just the difference between us! You carry your easel and stool and paint-boxes and umbrella up the steepest hill, and never mind if your back aches; I bend over Miss Denison’s children with their drawing or building, and never think of my back-ache, do you see?”
“Yes; but I always keep up my spirits by thinking that though I may be tired and discouraged, it is worth while because it is Art I am working at; and for the sake of being an artist I ought to be willing to endure anything. You would n’t have that feeling to inspire and help you.”
“I should like to know why I would n’t,” exclaimed Polly, with flashing eyes. “I should like to know why teaching may not be an art. I confess I don’t know exactly what an artist is, or rather what the dictionary definition of art is; but sit down in Miss Burke’s room at the college; you can’t stay there half an hour without thinking that, rather than have her teach you anything, you would be an ignorant little cannibal on a desert island! She does n’t know how, and there is nothing beautiful about it. But look at Miss Denison! When she comes into her kindergarten it is like the sunrise, and she makes everything blossom that she touches. It is all so simple and sweet that it seems as if anybody could do it; but when you try it you find that it is quite different. Whether she plays or sings, or talks or works with the children, it is perfect. ‘It all seems so easy when you do it,’ I said to her yesterday, and she pointed to the quotation for the day in her calendar. It was a sentence from George MacDonald: ‘Ease is the lovely result of forgotten toil.’ Now it may be that Miss Mary Denison is only an angel; but I think that she ‘s an artist.”
“On second thoughts, perhaps you are right in your meaning of the word, though it does n’t follow that all teachers are artists.”
“No; nor that all the painters are,” retorted Polly. “Think of that poor Miss Thomas in your outdoor class. Last week, when you were sketching the cow in front of the old barn, I sat behind her for half an hour. Her barn grew softer and softer and her cow harder and harder, till when she finished, the barn looked as if it were molded in jelly and the cow as if it were carved in red sandstone.”
“She ought not to be allowed to paint,” said Margery decisively.
“Of course she ought n’t! That’s just what I say; and I ought not to be allowed to keep boarders, and I won’t!”
“I must say you have wonderful courage, Polly. It seems so natural and easy for you to strike out for yourself in a new line that it must be you feel a sense of power, and that you will be successful.”
Polly’s manner changed abruptly as she glanced in at her mother’s empty chair before she replied.
“Courage! Sometimes I think I have n’t a morsel. I am a gilded sham. My knees tremble whenever I think of my future ‘career,’ as I call it. Mamma thinks me filled with a burning desire for a wider sphere of action, and so I am, but chiefly for her sake. Courage! There ‘s nothing like having a blessed, tired little mother to take care of,—a mother whom you want to snatch from the jaws of a horrible fate. That ‘s a trifle strong, but it’s dramatic! You see, Margery, a woman like my mother is not going to remain forever in her present rank in her profession,—she is too superior; she is bound to rise. Now, what would become of her if she rose? Why, first, she would keep a country hotel, and sit on the front piazza in a red rocker, and chat with the commercial travelers; and then she would become the head of a summer resort, with a billiard-room and a bowling-alley. I must be self-supporting, and ‘I will never desert Mr. Micawber,’ so I should make beds and dust in Hotel Number One, and in Hotel Number Two entertain the guests with my music and my ‘sprightly manners,’—that’s what Mr. Greenwood calls them, and the only reason I am sorry we live in a republic is that I can’t have him guillotined for doing it, but must swallow my wrath because he pays twenty dollars a week and seldom dines at home. Finally, in Hotel Number Three I should probably marry the ninepin-man or the head clerk, so as to consolidate the management and save salaries, and there would end the annals of the Olivers! No, Margery!” cried Polly, waving the scissors in the air, “everybody is down on the beach, and I can make the welkin ring if I like, so hear me: The boarders must go! How, when, and where they shall go are three problems I have n’t yet solved; and what I shall find to take the place of them when they do go is a fourth problem, and the knottiest one of all!”
Chapter III.
The Doctor Gives Polly a Prescription
As the summer wore away, Mrs. Oliver daily grew more and more languid, until at length she was forced to ask a widowed neighbor, Mrs. Chadwick, to come and take the housekeeping cares until she should feel stronger. But beef-tea and drives, salt-water bathing and tonics, seemed to do no good, and at length there came a day when she had not sufficient strength to sit up.
The sight of her mother actually in bed in the daytime gave Polly a sensation as of a cold hand clutching at her heart, and she ran for Dr. Edgerton in an agony of fear. But good “Dr. George” (as he was always called, because he began practice when his father, the old doctor, was still living) came home with her, cheered her by his hopeful view of the case, and asked her to call at his office that afternoon for some remedies.
After dinner was over, Polly kissed her sleeping mother, laid a rose on her pillow for good-by, and stole out of the room.
Her heart was heavy as she walked into the office where the doctor sat alone at his desk.
“Good-day, my dear!” he said cordially, as he looked up, for she was one of his prime favorites. “Bless my soul, how you do grow, child! Why you are almost a woman!”
“I am quite a woman,” said Polly, with a choking sensation in her throat; “and you have something to say to me, Dr. George, or you would n’t have asked me to leave mamma and come here this stifling day; you would have sent the medicine by your office-boy.”
Dr. George laid down his pen in mild, amazement. “You are a woman, in every sense of the word, my dear! Bless my soul, how you do hit it occasionally, you sprig of a girl! Now, sit by that window, and we ‘ll talk. What I wanted to say to you is this, Polly. Your mother must have an entire change. Six months ago I tried to send her to a rest-cure, but she refused to go anywhere without you, saying that you were her best tonic.”
Two tears ran down Polly’s cheeks.
“Tell me that again, please,” she said softly, looking out of the window.
“She said—if you will have