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[Transcriber's notes: Punctuation and inconsistencies in language anddialect found in the original book have been retained.Sophie May is a pseudonym of Rebecca Sophia Clarke.Smilie/Smiley spelled two ways: used Smiley.]
Frontispiece.]
_LITTLE PRUDY'S FLYAWAY SERIES._
AUNT MADGE'S STORY.
BY
SOPHIE MAY,
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE PRUDY STORIES," "DOTTY DIMPLE STORIES," ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED._
BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
NEW YORK: LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM. 1874.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, BY LEE AND SHEPARD, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Electrotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry, No. 19 Spring Lane.
_LITTLE PRUDY'S FLYAWAY SERIES._
TO BE COMPLETED IN SIX VOLS.
1. LITTLE FOLKS ASTRAY.
2. PRUDY KEEPING HOUSE.
3. AUNT MADGE'S STORY.
(Others in preparation.)
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. TOTTY-WAX. 9
II. THE LADY CHILD. 20
III. THE BLUE PARASOL. 38
IV. LIZE JANE. 55
V. THE PARTY. 69
VI. THE PATCHWORK SCHOOL. 87
VII. THE LITTLE LIE-GIRL. 108
VIII. THE TANSY CHEESE. 122
IX. "WAXERATION." 140
X. "THE CHILD'S ALIVE." 159
XI. THE FIRST CAR RIDE. 174
XII. BETTER THAN KITTENS. 188
XIII. GOOD BY. 199
AUNT MADGE'S STORY.
CHAPTER I.
TOTTY-WAX.
Here you sit, Horace, Prudy, Dotty, and Flyaway, all waiting for astory. How shall I begin? I cannot remember the events of my life inright order, so I shall have to tell them as they come into my mind.Let us see. To go back to the long, long summer, when I was a child:
There once lived and moved a little try-patience, called MargaretParlin; no more nor less a personage than myself, your affectionateauntie, and very humble servant. I was as restless a baby as ever saton a papa's knee and was trotted to "Boston." When I cried, my womanlysister 'Ria, seven years old, thought I was very silly; and my brotherNed, aged four, said, "Div her a pill; _I_ would!"
He thought pills would cure naughtiness. If so, I ought to haveswallowed some. Pity they didn't "div" me a whole box full before Ibegan to creep; for I crept straight into mischief. Aunt Persis, avery proper woman, with glittering black eyes, was more shocked by methan words can tell. She said your grandma "spoiled me by baby-talk;it was very wrong to let little ones hear baby-talk. If she had hadthe care of me she would have taught me grammar from the cradle." Nodoubt of it; but unfortunately I had to grow up with my own father andmother, and ever so many other folks, who were not half as wise asAunt Persis.
They called me Marg'et, Maggie, Marjie, Madge; and your grandpa's petname was Totty-wax; only, if I joggled the floor when he shaved, itwas full-length "Mar-ga-ret."
I was a sad little minx, so everybody kindly informed me, and so Ifully believed. My motto in my little days seems to have been, "_Speaktwice before you think once_;" and you will see what troubles it ledme into. I never failed to "speak twice," but often forgot thethinking altogether. Margaret means Daisy; but if I was like anyflower at all, I should say it was "the lady in the bower." You knowit, Prudy, how it peeps out from a tangle of little tendrils? Just soI peeped out, and was dimly seen, through a wild, flying head of hair.Your grandma was ashamed of me, for if she cut off my hair I was takenfor a boy, and if she let it grow, there was danger of my getting asquint in my eye. Sometimes I ran into the house very much grieved,and said,--
"O, mamma, I wasn't doin' noffin, only sitting top o' the gate, and aman said, 'Who's that funny little fellow?'--Please, mamma, won't younot cut my hair no more?"
I was only a wee bit of a Totty-wax when she stopped cutting my yellowhair, and braided it in two little tails behind. The other girls hadbraids as well as I; but, alas! mine were not straight like theirs;they quirled over at the end. I hated that curly kink; if it didn't gooff it would bring my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.
But, children, I fear some of the stories I told were crookederthan even my braids. In the first place, I didn't know any better. Itold lies, to hear how funny they would sound. My imagination waslarge, and my common sense small. I lived in a little world of my own,and had very queer thoughts. Perhaps all children do; what think, Fly?When I was lying in the cradle I found my hands one day, and Ishouldn't wonder if I thought they were two weeny babies comevisiting; what do you suppose? Of course I didn't know they belongedto me, but I stared at them, and tried to talk. And from that timeuntil I was a great girl, as much as five years old, I was alwayssupposing things were "diffunt" from what they really were. I thoughtour andirons were made of gold, just like the stars, only the andironshad enough gold in them to sprinkle the whole sky, and leave a goodslice to make a new sun. When I saw a rainbow, I asked if it was "aside-yalk for angels to yalk on?"
I thought the cat heard what I said when I talked to her, and if Ipicked a flower I kissed it, for "mebbe" the flower liked to bekissed.
I had a great deal of fun "making believe," all to myself. I madebelieve my mamma had said I might go somewhere, and off I would go,thinking, as I crept along by the fence, bent almost double for fearof being seen, "_Prehaps_ she'll tie me to the bed-post for it."
And she always did.
I was the youngest of the family then, but I made believe I had oncehad a sister Marjie, no bigger than my doll, and a naughty woman in agreen cloak came and carried her off in her pocket. I told my littlefriend Ruphelle so much about this other Marjie that she believed inher, and after a while I believed in her myself. We used to sit onthe hay and talk about her, and wonder if the naughty woman would everbring her back. We thought it would be nice to have her to play with.
This was not very wicked; it was only a fairy story. But the mischiefwas, my dear mother did not know where to draw the line between fairystories and lies. Once I ran away, and Mrs. Gray told her she had seenme playing on the meeting-house steps with Ann Smiley.
"No, mamma," said I, catching my breath, "'twasn't me Mis' Gray saw; Iknow who 'twas. There's a little girl in this town looks jus' like me;has hair jus' the same; same kind o' dress; lives right under themeeting-house. Folks think it's me!"
Your grandma was distressed to have me look her straight in the faceand tell such a lie; but the more she said, "Why, Margaret!" thedeeper I went into particulars.
"Name's Jane Smif. Eats acorns; sleeps in a big hole. Didn't you neverhear about her, mamma?"
As I spoke, I could almost see Jane Smif creeping slyly out of the bighole with mud on her apron. She was as real to me as some of thelittle girls I met on the street; not the little girls I played with,but those who "came from over the river."
My dear mother did not know what to do with a child that had such ahabit of making up stories; but my father said,--
"Totty-wax doesn't know any better."
Mother sighed, and answered, "But _Maria_ always knew better."
I knew there was "sumpin bad" about me, but thought it was like theblack on a negro's face, that wouldn't wash off. The idea of tryingto stop lying never entered my head. Wh
en mother took me out of thecloset, and asked, "Would I be a better girl?" I generally said, "Yesum," very promptly, and cried behind my yellow hair; but that was onlybecause I was touched by the trembling of her voice, and vaguelywished, for half a minute, that I hadn't made her so sorry; that wasall.
But when I told that amazing story about Jane Smif, in addition torunning away, mother whipped me for the first time in my life with abirch switch.
"Margaret," said she, "if you ever tell another wrong story, I shallwhip you harder than this, you may depend upon it."
I was frightened into awful silence for a while, but soon forgot thethreat. I was careful to avoid the name of Jane Smif, but I very soonwent and told Ruphelle that my mamma had silk dresses, spangled withstars; "kep' 'em locked into a trunk; did _her_ mamma have stars on_her_ dresses?" Ruphelle looked as meek as a lamb, but her brotherGust snapped his fingers, and said,--
"O, what a whopper!"
That is why I remember it, for Ruth heard him, and asked what kind ofa whopper I had been telling now, and reported it to mother.
Mother rose very sorrowfully from her chair, and bade me follow herinto the attic. I went with fear and trembling, for she had thatdreadful switch in her hand. Poor woman! She wished she had notpromised to use it again, for she began to think it was all in vain.But she must not break her word; so she struck me across the wristsand ankles several times; not very hard, but hard enough to make mehop about and cry.
When she had finished she turned to go down stairs, but I saidsomething so strange that she stopped short with surprise.
"I _can't_ 'pend upon it, mamma," said I, looking out through my hair,with the tears all dried off. "You said you'd whip me harder, but youwhipped me _softer_. I _can't_ 'pend upon it, mamma. You've telled alie yourse'f."
What could mother say? I have often heard her describe the scenewith a droll smile. She gave me a few more tingles across the neck, tosatisfy my ideas of justice; but that was the last time she used theswitch for many a long day. Not that I stopped telling marvellousstories; but she thought she would wait till she saw some faint signin me that I knew the "diffunce" between truth and falsehood.