DOLLY PHONE.
A dusty workshop, dark except where one broad ray of light streamedthrough a broken shutter, a row of mysterious objects, with a tiny tinfunnel fitted into the front of each, and a cloth over their tops, odddesigns in wood and brass hanging on the wall, a carpenter's bench, asmall furnace, a general strew of shavings, iron scrape, and odds andends, and a little girl sitting on the floor, crying. It does not soundmuch like the beginning of a story, does it? And no one would have beenmore surprised than Amy Carpenter herself if any one had come as she satthere crying, and told her that a story was begun, and she was in it.
Yet that is the way in which stories in real life often do begin. Dust,dulness, every-day things about one, tears, temper; and out of theseunpromising materials Fate weaves a "happening" for us. She does notwait till skies are blue and suns shine, till the room is dusted, and weare all ready, but chooses such time as pleases her, and surprises us.
Amy was in as evil a temper as little girls of ten are often visitedwith. Things had gone very wrong with her that day. It began with agreat disappointment. All Miss Gray's class at school was going on apicnic. Amy had expected to go too, and at the last moment her motherhad kept her at home.
"I'm real sorry about it," Mrs. Carpenter had said, "but you see how itis. Baby's right fretty with his teeth, and your father's that worriedabout his machine that I'm afraid he'll be down sick. If we can't keepBaby quiet, father can't eat, and if he don't eat he won't sleep, and ifhe can't sleep he can't work, and then I don't see what will become ofus. I've all that sewing to finish for Mrs. Judge Peters, and she'sgoing away Monday; and if she don't have it in time, she'll be put out,and, as like as not, give her work to some one else. Now, don't cry,Amy. I'm right sorry to disappoint you, but all of us must take our turnin giving up things. I'm sure I take mine," with a little patient sigh.
"Father's sure that this new machine of his is going to make ourfortune," she went on, after an interval of busy stitching. "But I don'tknow. He said just the same about the alarm-clock, and the ImfernoReaper and Binder, and that thing-a-my-jig for opening cans, and theself-registering Savings Bank, and the Minute Egg-Beater, and the TuckMeasurer, and none of them came to anything in the end. Perhaps it'll bethe same with this." Another sigh, a little deeper than the last.
Some little girls might have been touched with the tired, discouragedvoice and look, but Amy was a stormy child, with a hot temper and a verystrong will. So instead of being sorry and helpful, she went on cryingand complaining, till her mother spoke sharply, and then subsided intosulky silence. Baby woke, and she had to take him up, but she did itunwillingly, and her unhappy mood seemed to communicate itself to him,as moods will. He wriggled and twisted in her arms, and presently beganto whimper. Amy hushed and patted. She set him on his feet, she turnedhim over on his face, nothing pleased him. The whimper increased to aroar.
"Dear! dear!" cried poor Mrs. Carpenter, stopping her machine in themiddle of a long seam. "What is the matter? I never did see anybody sounhandy with a baby as you are. Here I am in such a hurry, and youdon't try to amuse him worth a cent. I'm really ashamed of you, AmyCarpenter."
Amy's back and arms ached; she felt that this speech was cruelly unjust.What she did not see was that it was her own temper which was repeatedin her little brother. Like all babies, he knew instinctively thedifference between loving tendance and that which is bestowed from acold sense of duty, and he resented the latter with all his might.
"Do walk up and down and sing to him," said Mrs. Carpenter, who hated tohave her child unhappy, but still more to leave her sewing,--"singsomething cheerful. Perhaps he'll go to sleep if you do."
So Amy, feeling very cross and injured, had to walk the heavy baby upand down, and sing "Rock me to sleep, Mother," which was the only"cheerful" song she could think of. It quieted the baby for a while,then, just as his eyelids were drooping, a fresh attack of frettingseized upon him, and he began to cry; Amy was so vexed that she gave hima furtive slap. It was a very little slap, but her mother saw it.
"You naughty, bad girl!" she cried, jumping up; "so that's the way youtreat your little brother, is it? Slapping him on the sly! No wonder hedoesn't like you, and won't go to sleep!" She snatched the child away,and gave Amy a smart box on the ear. Mrs. Carpenter, though a goodwoman, had a quick temper of her own.
"You can go up-stairs now," she said in a stern, exasperated tone. "Idon't want you any more this afternoon. If you were a good girl, youmight have been a real comfort to me this hard day, but as it is, I'drather have your room than your company."
Frightened and angry both, Amy rushed up-stairs, and into her father'sworkshop, the door of which stood open. He had just gone out, and theconfusion and dreariness of the place seemed inviting to her at themoment. Flinging the door to with a great bang, she threw herself on thefloor, and gave vent to her pent-up emotions.
"It's unjust!" she sobbed, speaking louder than usual, as people do whoare in a passion. "Mamma is as mean as she can be! Scolding me becausethat old baby wouldn't go to sleep! I hate everybody! I wish I was dead!I wish everybody else was dead!"
These were dreadful words for a little girl to use. Even in her anger,Amy would have been startled and ashamed at the idea of any one's everhearing them.
But Amy had a listener, though she little suspected it, and, what wasworse, a listener who was recording every word that she uttered!
The "new machine" of which Mrs. Carpenter had spoken was really a veryclever and ingenious one. It was the adaptation of the phonographicprinciple to the person of a doll. Mr. Carpenter had succeeded ininteresting somebody with capital in his project, and the dolls were atthat moment being manufactured for the apparatus, the construction ofwhich he kept in his own hands. This apparatus was held in smallcylinders, just large enough to fit into the body of a doll and contain,each, a few sentences, which the doll would seem to speak when set in anupright position.
These cylinders were just ready, and standing in a row waiting toreceive their "charges," which were to be put into them through the tinfunnels fitted for the purpose. Amy, as she sat on the floor, wasexactly opposite one of these funnels, and all her angry words passedinto, and became a part of, the mechanism of the doll. After this, nomatter how many pretty words might be uttered softly into that cylinder,none of them could make any impression; the doll was full. It could holdno more.
But no one knew that the doll was full. Amy, her fit of passion over,fell asleep on the floor, and when her father's step sounded below,waked in a calmer mood. She was sorry that she had been so naughty, andtried to make up for it by being more helpful and patient in the eveningand next day. Her mother easily forgave her, and she did not find ithard to forgive herself, and soon forgot the event of that unhappyafternoon. Mr. Carpenter sat down in front of his cylinders that night,and filled them all, as he supposed, with nice little sentences toplease and surprise small doll owners, such as "Good morning, Mamma.Shall I put on my pink or my olive frock this morning?" or "Good-night,Mamma. I'm so sleepy!" or bits of nursery rhymes,--Bo Peep or Jack andJill or Little Boy Blue. Then, when the phonographs were filled, themachinery went away to be put in the dolls, and Mr. Carpenter began on afresh set.
Mrs. Carpenter, meanwhile, had finished her big job of sewing, so shefelt less hurried, and had more time for the baby. The weather wasbeautiful, things went well at school, and altogether life seemedpleasant to Amy, and she found it easy to be kind and good-natured.
This agreeable state of things lasted through the autumn. TheDolliphone, as Mr. Carpenter had christened his invention, proved a hit.Orders poured in from all over the United States, and from England andFrance, and the manufactory was taxed to its utmost extent. At last oneof Mr. Carpenter's inventions had turned out a success, and his spiritsrose high.
"We've fetched it this time, Mother," he told his wife. "The stock'sgoing up like all possessed, and the dolls are going out as fast as wecan get them ready. Why, we've had orders from as far off as Australia!China'll
come next, I suppose, or the Cannibal Islands. There's no endto the money that's in it."
"I'm glad, Robert, I'm sure," returned Mrs. Carpenter; "but don't counttoo much upon it all. I've thought a heap of that self-acting churn, youremember."
"Pshaw! the churn never did amount to shucks anyhow," said her husband,who had the true inventor's faculty for forgetting the mischances of thepast in the contemplation of the hopes of the future. "It was just alittle dud to make folks open their eyes, any way. This Dolliphone isdifferent. It's bound to sell like wild-fire, once it gets to going.We'll be rich folks before we know it, Mother."
"That'll be nice," said Mrs. Carpenter, with a dry, unbelieving cough.She did not mean to be as discouraging as she sounded, but a woman canscarcely be the wife of an unsuccessful genius for fifteen years, andsee the family earnings vanish down the throat of one invention afteranother, without becoming outwardly, as well as inwardly, discouraged.
"Now, don't be a wet blanket, Mother," said Mr. Carpenter,good-humoredly. "We've had some upsets in our calculation, I confess,but this time it's all coming out right, as you'll see. And I wanted toask you about something, and that is what you'd think of Amy's havingone of the dolls for her Christmas? Don't you think it'd please her?"
"Why, of course; but do you think you can afford it, Robert? The dollsare five dollars, aren't they?"
"Yes, to customers they are, but I shouldn't have to pay anything likethat, of course. I can have one for cost price, say a dollarseventy-five; so if you think the child would like it, we'll fix it so."
"Well, I should be glad to have Amy get one," said Mrs. Carpenter,brightening up. "And it seems only right that she should, when youinvented it and all. She's been pretty good these last weeks, and she'llbe mightily tickled."
So it was settled, but the pile of orders to be filled was so incessantthat it was not till Christmas Eve that Mr. Carpenter could get hold ofa doll for his own use, and no time was left in which to dress it. Thatwas no matter, Mrs. Carpenter declared; Amy would like to make theclothes herself, and it would be good practice in sewing. She hunted upsome pieces of cambric and flannel and scraps of ribbon for the purpose,and when Amy woke on Christmas morning, there by her side lay the big,beautiful creature, with flaxen hair, long-lashed blue eyes, and adimple in her pink chin. Beside her was a parcel containing thematerials for her clothes and a new spool of thread, and on the doll'sarm was pinned a paper with this inscription:--
"_For Amy, with a Merry Christmas from Father and Mother._
"_Her name is Dolly Phone._"
Amy's only doll up to this time had been a rag one, manufactured by hermother, and you can imagine her delight. She hugged Dolly Phone to herheart, kissed her twenty times over, and examined all her beauties indetail,--her lovely bang, her hands, and her little feet, which hadbrown kid shoes sewed on them, and the smile on her lips, which showedtwo tiny white teeth. She stood her up on the quilt to see how tall shewas, and as she did so, wonder of wonders, out of these smiling red lipscame a voice, sharp and high-pitched, as if a canary-bird or aJew's-harp were suddenly endowed with speech, and began to talk to her!
What did the voice say? Not "Good-morning, Mamma," or "I'm so sleepy!"or "Mistress Mary quite contrary," or "Twinkle, twinkle, littlestar,"--none of these things. Her sister dolls might have said thesethings; what Dolly Phone said, speaking fast and excitedly, was,--
"It's unjust! Mamma is as mean as she can be! Scolding me because thatold baby wouldn't go to sleep! I hate everybody! I wish I was dead! Iwish everybody else was dead!" And then, in a different tone, a gooddeal deeper, "Good-morning, ma-m--" and there the voice stoppedsuddenly.
Amy had listened to this remarkable address with astonishment. That herbeautiful new baby could speak, was delightful, but what horrible thingsshe said!
"How queerly you talk, darling!" she cried, snatching the doll into herarms again. "What is the matter? Why do you speak so to me? Are youalive, or only making believe? I'm not mean; what makes you say I am?And, oh! why do you wish you were dead?"
Dolly stared full in her face with an unwinking smile. She lookedperfectly good-natured. Amy began to think that she was dreaming, orthat the whole thing was some queer trick.
"There, there, dear!" she cried, patting the doll's back, "we won't sayany more about it. You love me now, I know you do!"
Then, very gently and cautiously, she set Dolly on her feet again."Perhaps she'll say something nice this time," she thought hopefully.
Alas! the rosy lips only uttered the self-same words. "Mean--unjust--Ihate everybody--I wish everybody was dead," in sharp, unpityingsequence. Worst of all, the phrases began to have a familiar sound toAmy's ear. She felt her cheeks burn with a sudden red.
"Why," she thought, "that was what I said in the workshop the day I wasso cross. How could the doll know? Oh, dear! she's so lovely and sobeautiful, but if she keeps on talking like this, what shall I do?"
Deep in her heart struggled an uneasy fear. Mother would hear the doll!Mother might suspect what it meant! At all hazards, Dolly must be keptfrom talking while mother was by.
She was so quiet and subdued when she went downstairs to breakfast, withthe doll in her arms, that her father and mother could not understandit. They had looked forward to seeing her boisterously joyful. Shekissed them, and thanked them, and tried to seem like her usual self,but mothers' eyes are sharp, and Mrs. Carpenter detected the look oftrouble.
"What's the matter, dear?" she whispered. "Don't you feel well?"
"Oh, yes! very well. Nothing's the matter." Amy whispered back, keepingthe terrible Dolly sedulously prone, as she spoke.
"Come, Amy, let's see your new baby," said Mr. Carpenter. "She's abeauty, ain't she? Half of her was made in this house, did you knowthat? Set her up, and let's hear her talk."
"She's asleep now," faltered Amy. "But she's been talking up-stairs. Shetalks very nicely, Papa. She's tired now, truly she is."
"Nonsense! she isn't the kind that gets tired. Her tongue won't ache ifshe runs on all day; she's like some little girls in that. Stand her up,Amy, I want to hear her. I've never seen one of 'em out of the shopbefore. She looks wonderfully alive, doesn't she, Mother?"
But Amy still hesitated. Her manner was so strange that her father grewimpatient at last, and, reaching out, took the doll from her, and set itsharply on the table. The little button on the sole of the foot set thecurious instrument within in motion. As prepared phrases were rolled offin shrill succession, Mr. Carpenter leaned forward to listen. When thesounds ended, he raised his head with a look of bewilderment.
"Why--why--what is the creature at?" he exclaimed. "That isn't what Iput into her. 'I Wish I was dead! Wish everybody else was dead!' I can'tunderstand it at all. I charged all the dolls myself, and there wasn't aword like that in the whole batch. If the others have gone wrong likethis, it's all up with our profits."
He looked so troubled and down-hearted that Amy could bear it no longer.
"It's all my fault!" she cried, bursting into tears. "Somehow it's allmy fault, though I can't tell how, for it was I who said those things. Isaid those very things, Papa, in your workshop one day when I was in atemper. Don't you recollect the day, Mother,--the day when I didn't goto the picnic, and Baby wouldn't go to sleep, and I slapped him, and youboxed my ears? I went up-stairs, and I was crying, and I said,--yes, Ithink I said every word of those things, though I forgot all about themtill Dolly said them to me this morning, and how she could possiblyknow, I can't imagine."
"But I can imagine," said her father. "Where did you sit that day, Amy?"
"On the floor, by the door."
"Was there a row of things close by, with tin funnels stuck in them anda cloth over the top?"
"I think there was. I recollect the funnels."
"Then that's all right!" exclaimed Mr. Carpenter, his face clearing up."Those were the phonographs, Mother, and, don't you see, she must havebeen exactly opposite one of the funnels, and her voice went in andfilled it. It's t
he best kind of good luck that that cylinder happenedto be put into her doll. If all that bad language had gone to anybodyelse, there would have been the mischief to pay. Folks would have beenwriting to the papers, as like as not, or the ministers preachingagainst the dolls as a bad influence. It would have ruined the wholeconcern, and all your fault, Amy."
"Oh, Papa, how dreadful! how perfectly dreadful!" was all Amy could say,but she sobbed so wildly that her father's anger melted.
"There, don't cry," he said more kindly; "we won't be too hard on you onChristmas Day. Wipe your eyes, and we'll try to think no more about it,especially as the spoiled doll has fallen to your own share, and no realharm is done."
In his relief Mr. Carpenter was disposed to pass lightly over thematter. Not so his wife. She took a more serious view of it.
"You see, Amy," she said that night when they chanced to be alone, "yousee how a hasty word sticks and lasts. You never supposed that day thatthe things you said would ever come back to you again, but here theyare."
"Yes--because of the doll,--of her inside, I mean. It heard."
"But if the doll hadn't heard, some one would have heard all the same."
"Do you mean God?" asked Amy, in an awe-struck voice.
"Yes. He hears every word that we say, the minister tells us, and writesthem all down in a book. If it frightened you to have the doll repeatthe words you had forgotten, think how much more it will frighten you,and all of us, when that book is opened and all the wrong things we haveever said are read out for the whole world to hear."
Mrs. Carpenter did not often speak so solemnly, and it made a greatimpression on Amy's mind. She still plays with Dolly Phone, and lovesher, in a way, but it is a love which is mingled with fear. The doll islike a reproach of conscience to her. That is not pleasant, so she iskept flat on her back most of the time. Only, now and then, when Amy hasbeen cross and said a sharp word, and is sorry for it, she solemnlytakes Dolly, sets her on her feet, and, as a penance, makes herselflisten to all the hateful string of phrases which form her stock ofconversation.
"It's horrid, but it's good for me," she tells the baby, who listenswith a look of fascinated wonder. "I shall have to keep her, and let hertalk that way, till I'm such a good girl that there isn't any danger ofmy ever being naughty again. And that must be for a long, long timeyet," she concludes with a sigh.