THE ADOPTING OF ROSA MARIE

(A Sequel to Dandelion Cottage) BY CARROLL WATSON RANKIN Author of "Dandelion Cottage," "The Girls of Gardenville," etc. With Illustrations by FLORENCE SCOVEL SHINN

NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

[i]

COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1936, BY CARROLL WATSON RANKIN PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

[ii]

TO EMILY, PHYLLIS, POLLY AND SUZANNE

[iii] [iv]

THE PERSONS OF THE STORY

[vii] [viii]

ILLUSTRATIONS

[1]

CHAPTER I Borrowed Babies

THE oldest inhabitant said that Lakeville was experiencing an unusual fall. He would probably have said the same thing if the high-perched town had accidentally tumbled off the bluff into the blue lake; but in this instance, he referred merely to the weather, which was certainly unusually mild for autumn.

It was not, however, the oldest, but four of the youngest citizens that rejoiced most in this unusual prolonging of summer; for the continued warm weather made it possible for those devoted friends, Jean Mapes, Marjory Vale, Mabel Bennett and little Bettie Tucker, to spend many a delightful hour in[2] their precious Dandelion Cottage, the real, tumble-down house that was now, after so many narrow escapes, safely their very own. Some day, to be sure, it would be torn down to make room for a habitable dwelling, but that unhappy day was still too remote to cause any uneasiness.

Of course, when very cold weather should come, it would be necessary to close the beloved Cottage, for there was no heating plant, there were many large cracks over and under the doors and around the windows; and by lying very flat on the dining-room floor and peering under the baseboards, one could easily see what was happening in the next yard. These, and other defects, would surely make the little house uninhabitable in winter; but while the unexpectedly extended summer lasted, the Cottagers were rejoicing over every pleasant moment of weather and praying hard for other pleasant moments.

Of all the games played in Dandelion Cottage, the one called "Mother" was the most[3] popular. To play it, it was necessary, first of all, to divide the house into four equal parts. As there were five rooms, this division might seem to offer no light task; but, by first subtracting the kitchen, it was possible to solve this difficult mathematical problem to the Cottagers' entire satisfaction.

But of course one can't play "Mother" without possessing a family. The Cottagers solved this problem also. Bettie's home could always be counted on to furnish at least two decidedly genuine babies and Jean could always borrow a perfectly delightful little cousin named Anne Halliday; but Marjory and Mabel, to their sorrow, were absolutely destitute of infantile relatives. Mabel was the chief sufferer. Sedate Marjory, plausible of tongue, convincing in manner, could easily accumulate a most attractive family at very short notice by the simple expedient of borrowing babies from the next block; but nowhere within reasonable reach was there a mother willing to intrust her[4] precious offspring a second time to heedless Mabel.

"Now, Mabel," Mrs. Mercer would say, when Mabel pleaded to have young Percival for her very own for just one brief hour, "I'd really like to oblige you, but it's getting late in the season, you are not careful enough about doors and windows and the last time you borrowed Percival you brought him home with a stiff neck that lasted three days."

"But I did remember to return him," pleaded Mabel.

"Do you sometimes forget?" queried Mrs. Mercer, with interest.

"I did twice," confessed always honest Mabel; "but truly I don't see how I can help it when babies sleep and sleep and sleep the way those two did. You see, I made a bed for Gerald Price on the lowest-down closet shelf, and he was so perfectly comfortable that he thought he was asleep for all night."

"What about the other time?"

[5]

"That was Mollie Dixon. But then, I had five children that day and only one bed. Mollie slipped down in the crack at the back—she's awfully thin—and I never missed her until her mother came after her. That was rather a bad time [Mabel sighed at the recollection] for Mrs. Dixon found the Cottage locked up for the night and poor little Mollie crying under the bed."

"Mabel! And you want to borrow my precious Percival!"

"But it couldn't happen again," protested Mabel, earnestly. "Bettie says that I'm just like lightning; I never strike twice in the same place. That's the reason I get into so many different kinds of scrapes. I'll be ever so careful, though, if you'll let me borrow Percival just this one time."

Mrs. Mercer, however, refused to part with Percival. Other mothers, approached by pleading Mabel, refused likewise to intrust their babies to her enthusiastic but heedless keeping. They knew her too well.

[6]

"The thing for you to do," suggested Marjory, ostentatiously washing the perfectly clean faces of the four delightful small persons that she had been able, without any trouble at all, to borrow in Blaker Street, "is to find a mother that really wants to get rid of her children."

"Yes," said Bob Tucker, who had dropped in to deliver the basket of apples that Mrs. Crane had sent to her former neighbors, "you ought to advertise for the kind of mother that feeds her babies to crocodiles. Perhaps some of them have emigrated to this country and sort of miss the Ganges River."

"You might try the orphan asylum," offered Jean, as balm for this wound. "It's only four blocks from here."

"I have," returned Mabel, dejectedly. "I went there early this morning."

"What happened?" demanded Bettie, who had just arrived with a little Tucker under each arm.

[7]

"They said they'd let them go 'permanently to responsible parties.' I didn't know just exactly what that meant, so I said: 'Does that mean that you'll lend me a few for two hours?'"

"And would they?"

"Well, they didn't. They said I'd better borrow a Teddy bear."

"How mean," said sympathetic Bettie. "Nevermind, I'll lend you Peter, this time."

"Say," queried Mabel, after she had accepted Bettie's proffered brother, "what does 'permanently' mean?"

"For keeps," explained Jean.

"What are 'responsible parties'?"

"Jean and Bettie and I," twinkled Marjory, "but not you."

"That's good," laughed Bob, who, like Marjory, loved to tease. "But never mind, Mabel. After you've practised a year or two on Peter, who's a nuisance if there ever was one, you'll find yourself growing respons—— Whoop! What was that?"

[8]

"That" was a sudden crash that resounded through the house. Everybody rushed to the kitchen. The big dish-pan that Mabel had left on the edge of the kitchen table was upside down on the floor. At least half of little Peter Tucker was under it. But the half that remained outside was so unmistakably alive that nobody felt very seriously alarmed—except Peter.

"Thank goodness!" said Mabel, removing the pan, "this is just a little Tucker and not any Percival Mercer! Cheer up, Peter. You're not as wet as you think you are. There wasn't more than a quart of water in that pan and it was almost perfectly clean."

And Peter, soothed by Mabel's reassuring tone, immediately cheered up.

[9]

CHAPTER II Rosa Marie

NOT long after Mabel's ineffectual attempt to borrow an orphan Mrs. Bennett dispatched her small daughter to Lake Street to find out, if possible, why Mrs. Malony, the poultry woman, had failed to send the week's supply of fresh eggs.

Now, the way to Mrs. Malony's was most interesting, particularly to a young person of observing habits. There were houses on only one side of the street and most of those were tumbling down under the weight of the sand that each rain carried down the hillside. But the opposite side of the road was even more attractive, for there one had a grassy, shrubby bank where one could pick all sorts of things off bushes and get burrs in one's stockings; a narrow stretch of pebbled beach where one could sometimes[10] find an agate, and a wide basin of very shallow water where one could almost—but not quite—step from stone to stone without wetting one's feet. It was certainly an enjoyable spot. The distance from Mabel's home to Mrs. Malony's was very short—a matter of perhaps five blocks. But if a body went the longest way round, stopped to scour the green bank for belated blackberries, prickly hazelnuts, dazzling golden-rod or rare four-leaved clovers; or loitered to gather a dress-skirtful of stony treasures from the glittering beach, going to Mrs. Malony's meant a great deal more than a

five blocks' journey.

Just a little beyond the poultry woman's house, on the lake side of the straggling street, a small, but decidedly attractive point of land jutted waterward for perhaps two hundred feet. On this projecting point stood a small shanty or shack, built, as Mabel described it later, mostly of knot-holes. She meant, without knowing how to say it, that[11] the lumber in the hut was of the poorest possible quality.

On this long-to-be-remembered day, a small object moving in the clearing that surrounded the shack attracted Mabel's attention. Curiosity led her closer to investigate.

"It's just as I thought!" exclaimed Mabel, peering rapturously through the bushes. "It's a real baby!"

Sure enough! It was a baby.

Mabel edged closer, moving cautiously for fear of frightening her unexpected find. She saw a small toddler, aged somewhere between two and three years, roving aimlessly about the chip-strewn clearing. The child's round cheeks, chubby wrists, bare feet and sturdy legs were richly brown. A straggling fringe of jet-black hair overhung the stout baby's black, beadlike eyes.

Near the doorway of the rickety shack a man, half French, half Indian, stood talking earnestly and with many gesticulations to a dark-skinned woman, framed by the doorway.[12] The woman had large black eyes, shaded by very long black lashes. She wore her rather coarse black hair in two long, thick braids that hung in front of her straight shoulders. In spite of her dark color, her worn shoes, her ragged, untidy gown, she seemed to Mabel an exceedingly pretty woman. The man, too, was handsome, after a bold, picturesque fashion; but the woman was the more pleasing.

Mabel approached timidly. She felt that she was intruding.

"Good-morning," said she, ingratiatingly. "Is this your little boy?"

"Him girl," returned the woman, with a sudden flash of white teeth between parted crimson lips. "Name Rosa Marie. Yes, him ma petite daughtaire. You like the looks on him, hey?"

"Oh, so much," cried Mabel, impulsively. "Oh, would you do me a favor?"

"A favaire," repeated the woman, with a puzzled glance. "W'at ees a favaire?"

[13]

"Oh, would you lend your baby to me? Would you let me have her to play with for—— Oh, for all day?"

"Here?" queried the mother, doubtfully.

"No, not here. In my own home—up there, on the hill. Could I keep her until six o'clock? I just adore babies, and she's so fat and cunning! Oh, please, please! I'd be just awfully obliged."

A look of understanding flashed suddenly between the man and the woman; but Mabel, stooping to make friends with little Rosa Marie, did not observe it.

"Your fodder 'ave nice house, plainty food, plainty money?" queried the woman, running a speculative eye over Mabel's plain but substantial wardrobe.

"Oh yes," returned Mabel, thoughtlessly. "And besides I have a playhouse. That is, it isn't exactly mine, but I just about live in it with three other girls, and that's where I want to take Rosa Marie. I'll be awfully careful of her if you'll only let me take her.[14] Oh, do you think she'll come with me? Couldn't you tell her to?"

The woman, bending to look into Rosa Marie's black eyes, talked loudly and rapidly in some foreign tongue. The mother's voice was harsh, but her eyes, Mabel noticed, seemed soft and tender, and much more beautiful than Rosa Marie's.

"Now," said the woman, turning to Mabel and speaking in broken English, "eef you want her, you must go at once. Go now, I tell you. Go queek, queek! Pull hard eef she ees drag behind. But go, I tell you, go!"

The voice rose to an unpleasant, almost too stirring pitch that jarred suddenly on Mabel's nerves; but, obeying these hasty instructions, the little girl drew Rosa Marie out of the inclosure, led her across the street and lifted her to the sidewalk. Looking back from the slight elevation, Mabel noticed that the man was again talking earnestly and gesticulating excitedly; while[15] the woman, once more framed by the doorway, followed, with her big black eyes, the chubby figure of Rosa Marie.

"I'll bring her back all safe and sound," shouted Mabel, over her shoulder. "Don't be afraid. Good-by, until six o'clock!"

Escorting Rosa Marie to Dandelion Cottage proved no light task. Her legs were very short, it soon became evident that she was not accustomed to using them for walking purposes, the way was mostly uphill and the little brown feet were bare. At first Mabel led, coaxed and encouraged with the utmost patience; but presently Rosa Marie sat heavily on the sidewalk and refused to rise. That is, she didn't say that she wouldn't rise. She remained sitting with such firmness of purpose that it seemed hopeless to attempt to break her of the habit.

Mabel walked round and round her firmly seated charge in helpless despair. Rosa Marie and the sidewalk were one.

"Want any help?" asked a friendly voice.[16] It belonged to a large, freckled boy who was carrying two pails of water from the lake to one of the tumble-down houses.

"Yes, I do," responded Mabel, promptly. "If you could just lift this child high enough for me to get hold of her I think I could carry her."

So the boy, setting his pails down, obligingly lifted Rosa Marie's solid little person, Mabel clasped the barrel-shaped body closely, and, after a word of thanks to the kind boy, proceeded homeward. But even now her troubles were not ended. By silently refusing to cuddle, Rosa Marie converted herself into a most uncomfortable burden. Her entire body was a silent protest against leaving her home.

"Do make yourself soft and bunchy," pleaded Mabel, giving Rosa Marie sundry pokes, calculated to make her double up like a jack-knife. "Here, bend this way. Haven't you any joints anywhere? Do hold tight with your arms and legs. This way.[17] Pshaw! You're just like a stuffed crocodile. Well, walk then, if you can't hang on like a real child. There's one thing certain, you shan't sit down again. I s'pose we'll get there sometime."

[18]

CHAPTER III Mabel's Day

ALMOST hopeless as it seemed at times, Mabel and the silent brown baby finally reached Dandelion Cottage. There they found Jean, seated in a chair with her lovely little cousin Anne Halliday perched like a pink and white blossom on the edge of the dining table before her, tying Anne's bewitching yellow curls with wide pink ribbons. Anne was a perpetual delight, for, besides being a picture during every moment of the long day, her ways were so quaint and so attractive that no one could help admiring her.

Marjory, her countenance carefully arranged to depict the deepest sorrow, stood guard over the Marcotte twins, who, touchingly covered with nasturtiums, were laid out on the parlor cozy corner, awaiting burial.[19] Their blue eyes blinked and their pink toes twitched; but, on the whole, they played their parts in a most satisfactory manner.

Bettie, with two small but attractive Tucker babies clinging to her brief skirts, was exclaiming: "These are my jewels," when tired, dusty Mabel, pushing reluctant Rosa Marie before her, walked in.

"For mercy's sake, what's that!" gasped Jean, sweeping Anne Halliday into her protecting arms.

"Is—is it something the cat dragged in?" asked Marjory.

"Is—can it be a real child?" demanded Bettie.

"This," announced Mabel, with dignity, "is my child. Her name is Rosa Marie—with all the distress on the ee."

"The distress seems to be all over both of you," giggled Marjory.

"That's just dust," explained Mabel.

"Did you both roll home like a pair of barrels?" queried Jean, "or did the Village[20] Improvement folks use you to dust the sidewalks?"

"What's the matter with that child's complexion?" demanded Marjory. "Is she tanned?"

"Coming home took long enough for us both to get tanned," returned Mabel, crossly, "but Rosa Marie's French, I guess."

"French! French nothing!" exclaimed Marjory. "She's nothing but a little wild Indian. Look at her hair. Look at her small black eyes. Look at her high cheekbones. Where in the world did you get her?"

Mabel explained. For once, the girls listened with the most flattering attention. Anne Halliday bobbed her pretty head to punctuate each sentence, the Tucker babies stood in silence with their mouths open, even the nicely laid-out Marcotte twins on the sofa sat up to hear the tale.

"And she's all mine until six o'clock," concluded Mabel, triumphantly.

[21]

"If she were mine," said Jean, "I'd give her a bath."

"I'd give her two," giggled Marjory.

So Mabel, assisted by Jean, Marjory, Bettie, little Anne, the two Tucker babies and the now very much alive Marcotte twins gave Rosa Marie a bath in the dish-pan. Although they changed the water as fast as they could heat more in the tea-kettle, although they used a whole bar of strong yellow soap, two teaspoonfuls of washing powder and a very scratchy washcloth lathered with Sapolio, Rosa Marie, who bore it all with stolid patience, was still richly brown from head to heels, when she emerged from her bath.

"Let's play Pocohontis!" cried Marjory, seizing the feather duster. "Put feathers in her hair and drape her in my brown petticoat. I'll be Captain John Smith in Bob Tucker's rubber boots."

"You won't either," retorted Mabel, indignantly. "I guess, after I dragged this[22] child all the way up here to play 'Mother' with, I'm not going to have her used for any old Pocohontises. She's my child, and I'm going to have the entire use of her while she lasts."

"After all," replied Marjory, cuttingly, "I don't want her. I'm sure I wouldn't care for any of that colored children. The usual shade is quite good enough for me."

But, while the novelty lasted and in spite of Marjory's declaration, Rosa Marie was a distinct success. Little Anne Halliday's cunningest ways and quaintest speeches went unheeded when Rosa Marie refused to wear shoes and stockings. She had never worn a shoe, and, without uttering a word, she made it plain that she had no intention of hampering her pudgy brown feet with the cast-off footgear of the young Tuckers.

Neither would she wear clothes, until Jean showed her the solitary garment she had arrived in, now soaking in a pan of soapy water. After they had arrayed her in a[23] long-sleeved apron of Anne's—it didn't go round, but had to be helped out with a cheese-cloth duster—it was evident that the unaccustomed whiteness bothered her. She was not used to being so remarkably stiff and clean.

The Marcotte twins, again prepared for burial, quarrelled most engagingly as to which should be buried under the apple-tree, both preferring that fruitful resting-place to the barren waste under the snowball bush; but nobody listened because Rosa Marie was doing extraordinary things with her bowl of bread and milk. Having lapped the milk like a cat, she was deftly chasing the crumbs round the bowl with a greedy and experienced tongue. It was plain that Rosa Marie had no table manners.

As for the infantile Tuckers, they were an old story. On this occasion they crawled into the corner cupboard and went to sleep and nobody missed them for a whole hour, just because Rosa Marie was emitting[24] queer little startled grunts every time Marjory's best doll wailed "Mam-mah!" "Pap-pah!" for her benefit. There was no doubt about it, Rosa Marie was decidedly amusing.