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<h1>MARY CARY</h1>
<h1><i>"FREQUENTLY MARTHA"</i></h1>
<h3>BY</h3>
<h2>Kate Langley Bosher</h2>
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<h2><SPAN name="I" id="I"></SPAN>I</h2>
<h2>AN UNTHANKFUL ORPHAN</h2>
<p>My name is Mary Cary. I live in the
Yorkburg Female Orphan Asylum.
You may think nothing happens in
an Orphan Asylum. It does. The
orphans are sure enough children, and
real much like the kind that have
Mothers and Fathers; but though they don't
give parties or wear truly Paris clothes, things
happen, and that's why I am going to write
this story.</p>
<p>To-day I was kept in. Yesterday, too. I
don't mind, for I would rather watch the lightning
up here than be down in the basement
with the others. There are days when I love
thunder and lightning. I can't flash and crash,
being just Mary Cary; but I'd like to, and when
it is done for me it is a relief to my feelings.</p>
<p>The reason I was kept in was this. Yesterday
Mr. Gaffney, the one with a sunk eye and
cold in his head perpetual, came to talk to us
for the benefit of our characters. He thinks
it's his duty, and, just naturally loving to talk,
he wears us out once a week anyhow. Yesterday,
not agreeing with what he said, I
wouldn't pretend I did, and I was punished
prompt, of course.</p>
<p>I don't care for duty-doers, and I tried not
to listen to him; but tiresome talk is hard not
to hear—it makes you so mad. Hear him I did,
and when, after he had ambled on until I
thought he really was castor-oil and I had
swallowed him, he blew his nose and said:</p>
<p>"You have much, my children, to be thankful
for, and for everything you should be thankful.
Are you? If so, stand up. Rise, and
stand upon your feet."</p>
<p>I didn't rise. All the others did—stood on
their feet, just like he asked. None tried their
heads. I was the only one that sat, and when
he saw me, his sunk eye almost rolled out, and
his good eye stared at me in such astonishment
that I laughed out loud. I couldn't help it,
I truly couldn't.</p>
<p>I'm not thankful for everything, and that's
why I didn't stand up. Can you be thankful
for toothache, or stomachache, or any kind of
ache? You cannot. And not meant to be,
either.</p>
<p>The room got awful still, and then presently
he said:</p>
<p>"Mary Cary"—his voice was worse than his
eye—"Mary Cary, do you mean to say you have
not a thankful heart?" And he pointed his
finger at me like I was the Jezebel lady come
to life.</p>
<p>I didn't answer, thinking it safer, and he
asked again:</p>
<p>"Do I understand, Mary Cary"—and by
this time he was real red-in-the-face mad—"do
I understand you are not thankful for all that
comes to you? Do I understand aright?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir, you understand right," I said,
getting up this time. "I am not thankful for
everything in my life. I'd be much thankfuller
to have a Mother and Father on earth
than to have them in heaven. And there are
a great many other things I would like different."
And down I sat, and was kept in for
telling the truth.</p>
<p>Miss Bray says it was for impertinence (Miss
Bray is the Head Chief of this Institution),
but I didn't mean to be impertinent. I truly
didn't. Speaking facts is apt to make trouble,
though—also writing them. To-day Miss Bray
kept me in for putting something on the blackboard
I forgot to rub out. I wrote it just for
my own relief, not thinking about anybody else
seeing it. What I wrote was this:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span>"Some people are crazy all the time;<br/></span>
<span>All people are crazy sometimes."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>That's why I'm up in the punishment-room
to-day, and it only proves that what I wrote is
right. It's crazy to let people know you know
how queer they are. Miss Bray takes personal
everything I do, and when she saw that blackboard,
up-stairs she ordered me at once. She
loves to punish me, and it's a pleasure I give
her often.</p>
<p>I brought my diary with me, and as I can't
write when anybody is about, I don't mind
being by myself every now and then. Miss
Bray don't know this, or my punishment would
take some other form.</p>
<p>I just love a diary. You see, its something
you can tell things to and not get in trouble.
When writing in it I can relieve my feelings by
saying what I think, which Miss Katherine says
is risky to do to people, and that it's safer to
keep your feelings to yourself. People don't
really care about them, and there's nothing
they get so tired of hearing about. A diary
doesn't talk, neither do animals; but a diary
understands better than animals, and you can
call things by their right name in a book which
it isn't safe to do out loud, even to a dog.</p>
<p>I know I am not unthankful, and I would
much rather have a Father and Mother on
earth than to have them in heaven, but I guess
I should have kept my preferences to myself.
Somehow preferences seem to make people mad.</p>
<p>But a Mother and Father in heaven <i>are</i> too
far away to be truly comforting. I like the
people I love to be close to me. I guess that
is why, when I was little, I used to hold out my
arms at night, hoping my Mother would come
and hold me tight. But she never came, and
now I know it's no use.</p>
<p>There are a great many things that are no
use. One is in telling people what they don't
want to know. I found that out almost two
years ago, when I wasn't but ten. The way
I found out was this.</p>
<p>One morning, it was an awful cold morning,
Miss Bray came into the dining-room just as
we were taking our seats for breakfast, and she
looked so funny that everybody stared, though
nobody dared to even smile visible. All the
children are afraid of Miss Bray; but at that
time I hadn't found out her true self, and, not
thinking of consequences, I jumped up and ran
over to her and whispered something in her ear.</p>
<p>"What!" she said. "What did you say?"
And she bent her head so as to hear better.</p>
<p>"You forgot one side of your face when fixing
this morning," I said, still whispering, not
wanting the others to hear. "Only one side is
pink—" But I didn't get any further, for she
grabbed my hand and almost ran with me out
of the room.</p>
<p>"You piece of impertinence!" she said, and
her eyes had such sparks in them I knew my
judgment-day had come. "You little piece
of impertinence! You shall be punished well
for this." I was. I didn't mean to be impertinent.
I thought she'd like to know. I
thought wrong.</p>
<p>I loathe Miss Bray. The very sight of her
shoulders in the back gets me mad all over
without her saying a word, and everything in
me that's wrong comes right forward and
speaks out when she and I are together. She
thinks she could run this earth better than it's
being done, and she walks like she was the
Superintendent of most of it. But I could
stand that. I could stand her cheeks, and her
frizzed front, and a good many other things;
but what I can't stand is her passing for being
truthful when she isn't. She tells stories, and
she knows I know it; and from the day I found
it out I have stayed out of her way; and were
she the Queen of Europe, Asia, and Africa, and
the United States I'd want her to stand out of
mine. I truly would.</p>
<p>Her outrageousest story I heard her tell myself.
It was over a year ago, and we were in
the room where the ladies were having a
Board meeting. I had come in to bring some
water, and had a waiter full of glasses in my
hands, and was just about to put them on the
table when I heard Miss Bray tell her Lie.</p>
<p>That's what she did. She Lied!</p>
<p>Those glasses never touched that table.
My hands lost their hold, and down they came
with a crash. Every one smashed to smithereens,
and I standing staring at Miss Bray.
The way she told her story was this. The
Board deals us out for adoption, and that
morning they were discussing a request for
Pinkie Moore, and, as usual, Miss Bray didn't
want Pinkie to go. You see, Pinkie was very
useful. She did a lot of disagreeable things for
Miss Bray, and Miss Bray didn't want to lose
her. And when Mrs. Roane, who is the only
Board lady truly seeing through her, asked, real
sharplike, why Pinkie shouldn't go this time,
Miss Bray spoke out like she was really grieved.</p>
<p>"I declare, Mrs. Roane," she said—and she
twirled her keys round and round her fingers,
and twitched the nostril parts of her nose
just like a horse—"I declare, Mrs. Roane, I
hate to tell you, I really do. But Pinkie Moore
wouldn't do for adoption. She has a terrible
temper, and she's so slow nobody would keep
her. And then, too"—her voice was the
Pharisee kind that the Lord must hate worse
than all others—"and then, too, I am sorry
to say Pinkie is not truthful, and has been
caught taking things from the girls. I hope
none of you will mention this, as I trust by
watching over her to correct these faults. She
begs me so not to send her out for adoption,
and is so devoted to me that—" And just
then she saw me, which she hadn't done before,
I being behind Mrs. Armstead, and she stopped
like she had been hit.</p>
<p>For a minute I didn't breathe. I didn't.
All I did was to stare—stare with mouth open
and eyes out; and then it was the glasses went
down and I flew into the yard, and there by
the pump was Pinkie.</p>
<p>"Oh, Pinkie!" I said. "Oh, Pinkie!" And I
caught her round the waist and raced up and
down the yard like a wild man from Borneo.
"Oh, Pinkie, what do you think?" Poor Pinkie,
thinking a mad dog had bit me, tried to make
me stop, but stop I wouldn't until there was
no more breath. And then we sat down on
the woodpile, and I hugged her so hard I
almost broke her bones.</p>
<p>First I was so mad I couldn't cry, and then
crying so I couldn't speak. But after a while
words came, and I said:</p>
<p>"Pinkie Moore, are you devoted to Miss
Bray? Are you? I want the truest truth.
Are you devoted to her?"</p>
<p>"Devoted to Miss Bray? Devoted!" And
poor little Pinkie, who has no more spirit than
a poor relation, spoke out for once. "I hate
her!" she said. "I hate her worse than prunes;
and if somebody would only adopt me, I'd be
so thankful I'd choke for joy, except for leaving
you." Then she boohoo'd too, and the
tears that fell between us looked like we were
artesian wells—they certainly did.</p>
<p>But Pinkie didn't know what caused my
tears. Mine were mad tears, and not being
able to tell her why they came, I had to send
her to the house to wash her face. I washed
mine at the pump, and then worked off some
of my mad by sweeping the yard as hard as I
could, wishing all the time Miss Bray was the
leaves, and trying to make believe she was. I
was full of the things the Bible says went into
swine, and I knew there would be trouble for
me before the day was out. But there wasn't.
Not even for breaking the pump-handle was I
punished, and Miss Bray tried so hard to be
friendly that at first I did not understand. I
do now.</p>
<p>That was my first experience in finding out
that some one who looked like a lady on the
outside was mean and deceitful on the inside,
and it made me tremble all over to find it could
be so. Since then I have never pretended to
be friends with Miss Bray. As for her, she
hates me—hates me because she knows I know
what sort of a person she is, a sort I loathe
from my heart.</p>
<p>When I first got my diary I thought I was
going to write in it every day. I haven't, and
that shows I'm no better on resolves than I
am on keeping step. I never keep step. Sometimes
I've thought I was really something, but
I'm not. Nobody much is when you know
them too well. It is a good thing for your
pride when you keep a diary, specially when
you are truthful in it. Each day that you
leave out is an evidence of character—poor
character—for it shows how careless and put-off-y
you are; both of which I am.</p>
<p>But it isn't much in life to be an inmate of a
Humane Association, or a Home, or an Asylum,
or whatever name you call the place where job-lot
charity children live. And that's what I
am, an Inmate. Inmates are like malaria and
dyspepsia: something nobody wants and every
place has. Minerva James says they are like
veterans—they die and yet forever live.</p>
<p>Well, anyhow, whenever I used to do wrong,
which was pretty constant, I would say to
myself it didn't matter, nobody cared. And
if I let a chance slip to worry Miss Bray I was
sorry for it; but that was before I understood
her, and before Miss Katherine came. Since
Miss Katherine came I know it's yourself that
matters most, not where you live or where
you came from, and I'm thinking a little more
of Mary Cary than I used to, though in a different
way. As for Miss Bray, I truly try at
times to forget she's living.</p>
<p>But she's taught me a good deal about Human
Nature, Miss Bray has. About the side
I didn't know. It's a pity there are things
we have to know. I think I will make a special
study of Human Nature. I thought once I'd
take up Botany in particular, as I love flowers;
or Astronomy, so as to find out all about those
million worlds in the sky, so superior to earth,
and so much larger; but I think, now, I'll settle
on Human Nature. Nobody ever knows what
it is going to do, which makes it full of surprises,
but there's a lot that's real interesting
about it. I like it. As for its Bray side, I'll
try not to think about it; but if there are
puddles, I guess it's well to know where, so as
not to step in them. I wish we didn't have
to know about puddles and things! I'd so
much rather know little and be happy than
find out the miserable much some people do.</p>
<p>Anyhow, I won't have to remember all I
learn, for Miss Katherine says there are many
things it's wise to forget, and whenever I can
I'll forget mean things. I'd forget Miss Bray's
if she'd tell me she was sorry and cross her
heart she'd never do them again. But I don't
believe she ever will. God is going to have a
hard time with Miss Bray. She's right old to
change, and she's set in her ways—bad ways.</p>
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