When I was Your Age

BY LAURA E. RICHARDS AUTHOR OF “CAPTAIN JANUARY,” “MELODY,” “QUEEN HILDEGARDE,” ETC. ILLUSTRATED BOSTON ESTES AND LAURIAT 1894 {6} Copyright, 1893, By Estes and Lauriat. University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A.

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TO THE Dear and Honored Memory of my Father,

DR. SAMUEL GRIDLEY HOWE.

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CONTENTS.

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

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CHAPTER I. OURSELVES.

There were five of us. There had been six, but the Beautiful Boy was taken home to heaven while he was still very little; and it was good for the rest of us to know that there was always one to wait for and welcome us in the Place of Light to which we should go some day. So, as I said, there were five of us here,—Julia Romana, Florence, Harry, Laura, and Maud. Julia was the eldest. She took her second name from the ancient city in which she was born, and she was as beautiful as a soft Italian evening,—with dark hair, clear gray eyes, perfect features, and a complexion of such pure and wonderful red and white as I have never{14} seen in any other face. She had a look as if when she came away from heaven she had been allowed to remember it, while others must forget; and she walked in a dream always, of beauty and poetry, thinking of strange things. Very shy she was, very sensitive. When Flossy (this was Florence’s home name) called her “a great red-haired giant,” she wept bitterly, and reproached her sister for hurting her feelings. Julia knew

everything, according to the belief of the younger children. What story was there she could not tell? She it was who led the famous before-breakfast walks, when we used to start off at six o’clock and walk to the Yellow Chases’ (we never knew any other name for them; it was the house that was yellow, not the people) at the top of the long hill, or sometimes even to the windmill beyond it, where we could see the miller at work, all white and dusty, and watch the white sails moving slowly round. And on the way Julia told us stories, from Scott or Shakspere; or gave us the plot of some opera, “Ernani” or “Trovatore,” with{15} snatches of song here and there. “Ai nostri monti ritornaremo,” whenever I hear this familiar air ground out by a hand-organ, everything fades from my eyes save a long white road fringed with buttercups and wild marigolds, and five little figures, with rosy hungry faces, trudging along, and listening to the story of the gypsy queen and her stolen troubadour.

Julia wrote stories herself, too,—very wonderful stories, we all thought, and, indeed, I think so still. She began when she was a little girl, not more than six or seven years old. There lies beside me now on the table a small book, about five inches square, bound in faded pink and green, and filled from cover to cover with writing in a cramped, childish hand. It is a book of novels and plays, written by our Julia before she was ten years old; and I often think that the beautiful and helpful things she wrote in her later years were hardly more remarkable than these queer little romances. They are very sentimental; no child of eight, save perhaps Marjorie Fleming,{16} was ever so sentimental as Julia,—“Leonora Mayre; A Tale,” “The Lost Suitor,” “The Offers.” I must quote a scene from the last-named play.

Scene I.

Parlor at Mrs. Evans’s. Florence Evans alone. Enter Annie.

A. Well, Florence, Bruin is going to make an offer, I suppose.

F. Why so?

A. Here’s a pound of candy from him. He said he had bought it for you, but on arriving he was afraid it was too trifling a gift; but hoping you would not throw it away, he requested me to give it to that virtuous young lady, as he calls you.

F. Well, I am young, but I did not know that I was virtuous.

A. I think you are.

Scene II.

Parlor. Mr. Bruin alone.

Mr. B. Why doesn’t she come? She doesn’t usually keep me waiting.{17}

Enter Florence.

F. How do you do? I am sorry to have kept you waiting.

Mr. B. I have not been here more than a few minutes. Your parlor is so warm this cold day that I could wait.

[Laughs.

F. You sent me some candy the other day which I liked very much.

Mr. B. Well, you liked the candy; so I pleased you. Now you can please me. I don’t care about presents; I had rather have something that can love me. You.

F. I do not love you.

[Exit Mr. Bruin.

Scene III.

Florence alone. Enter Mr. Cas.

F. How do you do?

Mr. C. Very well.

F. It is a very pleasant day.

Mr. C. Yes. It would be still pleasanter if you will be my bride. I want a respectful refusal, but prefer a cordial acception.

F. You can have the former.

[Exit Mr. Cas.

Scene IV.

Florence with Mr. Emerson.

Mr. E. I love you, Florence. You may not love me, for I am inferior to you; but tell me{18} whether you do or not. If my hopes are true, let me know it, and I shall not be doubtful any longer. If they are not, tell me, and I shall not expect any more.

F. They are.

[Exit Mr. Emerson.

The fifth scene of this remarkable drama is laid in the church, and is very thrilling. The stage directions are brief, but it is evident from the text that as Mr. Emerson and his taciturn bride advance to the altar, Messrs. Cas and Bruin, “to gain some private ends,” do the same. The Bishop is introduced without previous announcement.

Scene V.

Bishop. Are you ready?

Mr. B. Yes.

Bishop. Mr. Emerson, are you ready?

Mr. C. Yes.

Bishop. Mr. Emerson, I am waiting.

Bruin and Cas [together]. So am I.

Mr. E. I am ready. But what have these men to do with our marriage?

Mr. B. Florence, I charge you with a breach of promise. You said you would be my bride.

F. I did not.{19}

Mr. C. You promised me.

F. When?

Mr. C. A month ago. You said you would marry me.

Mr. B. A fortnight ago you promised me. You said we would be married to-day.

Mr. C. Bishop, what does this mean? Florence Evans promised to marry me, and this very day was fixed upon. And see how false she has been! She has, as you see, promised both of us, and now is going to wed this man.

Bishop. But Mr. Emerson and Miss Evans made the arrangements with me; how is it that neither of you said anything of it beforehand?

Mr. C. I forgot.

Mr. B. So did I.

[F. weeps.

Enter Annie.

A. I thought I should be too late to be your bridesmaid, but I find I am in time. But I thought you were to be married at half-past four, and it is five by the church clock.

Mr. E. We should have been married by this time, but these men say that Florence has promised to marry them. Is it true, Florence?

F. No. [Bessy, her younger sister, supports her.{20}

A. It isn’t true, for you know, Edward Bruin, that you and I are engaged; and Mr. Cas and Bessy have been for some time. And both engagements have been out for more than a week.

[Bessy looks reproachfully at Cas.

B. Why, Joseph Cas!

Bishop. Come, Mr. Emerson! I see that Mr. Cas and Mr. Bruin have been trying to worry your bride. But their story can’t be true, for these other young ladies say that they are engaged to them.

F. They each of them made me an offer, which I refused.

[The Bishop marries them.

F. [After they are married.] I shall never again be troubled with such offers [looks at Cas and Bruin] as yours!

I meant to give one scene, and I have given the whole play, not knowing where to stop. There was nothing funny about it to Julia. The heroine, with her wonderful command of silence, was her ideal of maiden reserve and dignity; the deep-dyed villany of Bruin and Cas, the retiring manners of the fortunate Emerson, the singular sprightliness of the Bishop, were all perfectly natural, as her vivid mind saw them.{21}

So she was bitterly grieved one day when a dear friend of the family, to whom our mother had read the play, rushed up to her, and seizing her hand, cried,—

“‘Julia, will you have me?’ ‘No!’ Exit Mr. Bruin.”

Deeply grieved the little maiden was; and it cannot have been very long after that time that she gave the little book to her dearest aunt, who has kept it carefully through all these years.

If Julia was like Milton’s “Penseroso,” Flossy was the “Allegro” in person, or like Wordsworth’s maiden,—

She was very small as a child. One day a lady, not knowing that the little girl was within hearing, said to her mother, “What a pity Flossy is so small!”

“I’m big inside!” cried a little angry voice at her elbow; and there was Flossy, swelling with rage, like an offended bantam. And she was big inside! her lively, active spirit seemed to break through the little body and carry it along in spite of itself. Sometimes{22} it was an impish spirit; always it was an enterprising one.

She it was who invented the dances which seemed to us such wonderful performances. We danced every evening in the great parlor, our mother playing for us on the piano. There was the “Macbeth” dance, in which Flossy figured as Lady Macbeth. With a dagger in her hand, she crept and rushed and pounced and swooped about in a most terrifying manner, always graceful as a fairy. A sofa-pillow played the part of Duncan, and had a very hard time of it. The “Julius Cæsar” dance was no less tragic; we all took part in it, and stabbed right and left with sticks of kindling-wood. One got the curling-stick and was happy, for it was the next thing to the dagger, which no one but Flossy could have. Then there was the dance of the “Four Seasons,” which had four figures. In spring we sowed, in summer we reaped; in autumn we hunted the deer, and in winter there was much jingling of bells. The hunting figure was most exciting. It was performed with knives {23}(kindling-wood), as Flossy thought them more romantic than guns; they were held close to the side,

with point projecting, and in this way we moved with a quick chassé step, which, coupled with a savage frown, was supposed to be peculiarly deadly.

Flossy invented many other amusements, too. There was the school-loan system. We had school in the little parlor at that time, and our desks had lids that lifted up. In her desk Flossy kept a number of precious things, which she lent to the younger children for so many pins an hour. The most valuable thing was a set of three colored worsted balls, red, green, and blue. You could set them twirling, and they would keep going for ever so long. It was a delightful sport; but they were very expensive, costing, I think, twenty pins an hour. It took a long time to collect twenty pins, for of course it was not fair to take them out of the pin-cushions.

Then there was a glass eye-cup without a foot; that cost ten pins, and was a great favorite with us. You stuck it in your eye,{24} and tried to hold it there while you winked with the other. Of course all this was done behind the raised desk-lid, and I have sometimes wondered what the teacher was doing that she did not find us out sooner. She was not very observant, and I am quite sure she was afraid of Flossy. One sad day, however, she caught Laura with the precious glass in her eye, and it was taken away forever. It was a bitter thing to the child (I know all about it, for I was Laura) to be told that she could never have it again, even after school. She had paid her ten pins, and she could not see what right the teacher had to take the glass away. But after that the school-loan system was forbidden, and I have never known what became of the three worsted balls.

Flossy also told stories; or rather she told one story which had no end, and of which we never tired. Under the sea, she told us, lived a fairy named Patty, who was a most intimate friend of hers, and whom she visited every night. This fairy dwelt in a palace hollowed out of a single immense{25} pearl. The rooms in it were countless, and were furnished in a singular and delightful manner. In one room the chairs and sofas were of chocolate; in another, of fresh strawberries; in another, of peaches,—and so on. The floors were paved with squares of chocolate and cream candy; the windows were of transparent barley-sugar, and when you broke off the arm of a chair and ate it, or took a square or two out of the pavement, they were immediately replaced, so that there was no trouble for anyone. Patty had a ball every evening, and Flossy never failed to go. Sometimes, when we were good, she would take us; but the singular thing about it was that we never remembered what had happened. In the morning our infant minds were a cheerful blank,

till Flossy told us what a glorious time we had had at Patty’s the night before, how we had danced with Willie Winkie, and how much ice-cream we had eaten. We listened to the recital with unalloyed delight, and believed every word of it, till a sad day of awakening came. We were always made to understand that we could not{26} bring away anything from Patty’s, and were content with this arrangement; but on this occasion there was to be a ball of peculiar magnificence, and Flossy, in a fit of generosity, told Harry that he was to receive a pair of diamond trousers, which he would be allowed to bring home. Harry was a child with a taste for magnificence; and he went to bed full of joy, seeing already in anticipation the glittering of the jewelled garment, and the effects produced by it on the small boys of his acquaintance. Bitter was the disappointment when, on awakening in the morning, the chair by his bedside bore only the familiar brown knickerbockers, with a patch of a lighter shade on one knee. Harry wept, and would not be comforted; and

after that, though we still liked to hear the Patty stories, we felt that the magic of them was gone,—that they were only stories, like “Blue-beard” or “Jack and the Beanstalk.”{27}

CHAPTER II. MORE ABOUT OURSELVES.

Julia and Flossy did not content themselves with writing plays and telling stories. They aspired to making a language,—a real language, which should be all their own, and should have grammars and dictionaries like any other famous tongue. It was called Patagonian,—whether with any idea of future missionary work among the people of that remote country, or merely because it sounded well, I cannot say. It was a singular language. I wish more of it had survived; but I can give only a few of its more familiar phrases.

Milldam—Yes.

Pilldam—No.

Mouche—Mother.

Bis von snout?—Are you well?{28}

Brunk tu touchy snout—I am very well.

Ching chu stick stumps?—Will you have some doughnuts?

These fragments will, I am sure, make my readers regret deeply the loss of this language, which has the merit of entire originality.

As to Flossy’s talent for making paper-dolls, it is a thing not to be described. There were no such paper-dolls as those. Their figures might not be exactly like the human figure, but how infinitely more graceful! Their waists were so small that they sometimes broke in two when called upon to courtesy to a partner or a queen: that was the height of delicacy! They had ringlets invariably, and very large eyes with amazing lashes; they smiled with unchanging sweetness, filling our hearts with delight. Many and wonderful were their dresses. The crinoline of the day was magnified into a sort of vast semi-circular cloud, adorned about the skirt with strange patterns; one small doll would sometimes wear a whole sheet of foolscap in an evening dress! That was{29} extravagant, but our daughters must be in the fashion. There was one yellow dress belonging to my doll Parthenia (a lovely creature of Jewish aspect, whose waist was smaller than her legs), which is not even now to be remembered without emotion. We built houses for the paper-dolls with books from the

parlor table, even borrowing some from the bookcase when we wanted an extra suite of rooms. I do not say it was good for the books, but it was very convenient for the dolls. I have reason to think that our mother did not know of this practice. In the matter of their taking exercise, however, she aided us materially, giving us sundry empty trinket-boxes lined with satin, which made the most charming carriages in the world. The state coach was a silver-gilt portemonnaie lined with red silk. It had seen better days, and the clasp was broken; but that did not make it less available as a coach. I wish you could have seen Parthenia in it!

I do not think we cared so much for other dolls, yet there were some that must be mentioned. Vashti Ann was named for a cook;{30} she belonged to Julia, and I have an idea that she was of a very haughty and disagreeable temper, though I cannot remember her personal appearance. Still more shadowy is my recollection of Eliza Viddipock,—a name to be spoken with bated breath. What dark crime this wretched doll had committed to merit her fearful fate, I do not know; it was a thing not to be spoken of to the younger children, apparently. But I do know that she was hanged, with all solemnity of judge and hangman. It seems unjust that I should have forgotten the name of Julia’s good doll, who died, and had the cover of the sugar-bowl buried with her, as a tribute to her virtues.

Sally Bradford and Clara both belonged to Laura. Sally was an india-rubber doll; Clara, a doll with a china head of the old-fashioned kind, smooth, shining black hair, brilliant rosy cheeks, and calm (very calm) blue eyes. I prefer this kind of doll to any other. Clara’s life was an uneventful one, on the whole, and I remember only one remarkable thing in it. A little girl in the{31} neighborhood invited Laura to a dolls’ party on a certain day: she was to bring Clara by special request. Great was the excitement, for Laura was very small, and had never yet gone to a party. A seamstress was in the house making the summer dresses, and our mother said that Clara should have a new frock for the party. It seemed a very wonderful thing to have a real new white muslin frock, made by a real seamstress, for one’s beloved doll. Clara had a beautiful white neck, so the frock was made low and trimmed with lace. When the afternoon came, Laura brought some tiny yellow roses from the greenhouse, and the seamstress sewed them on down the front of the

frock and round the neck and hem. It is not probable that any other doll ever looked so beautiful as Clara when her toilet was complete.

Then Laura put on her own best frock, which was not one half so fine, and tied on her gray felt bonnet, trimmed with quillings of pink and green satin ribbon, and started off, the proudest and happiest child in the whole world. She reached the house (it was{32} very near) and climbed up the long flight of stone steps, and stood on tiptoe to ring the bell,—then waited with a beating heart. Would there be many other dolls? Would any of them be half so lovely as Clara? Would there—dreadful thought!—would there be big girls there?

The door opened. If any little girls read this they will now be very sorry for Laura. There was no dolls’ party! Rosy’s mother (the little girl’s name was Rosy) had heard nothing at all about it; Rosy had gone to spend the afternoon with Sarah Crocker.

“Sorry, little girl! What a pretty dolly! Good-by, dear!” and then the door was shut again.

Laura toddled down the long stone steps, and went solemnly home. She did not cry, because it would not be nice to cry in the street; but she could not see very clearly. She never went to visit Rosy again, and never knew whether the dolls’ party had been forgotten, or why it was given up.