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Sweet Little Maid, A

<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2><h3>Housekeepers</h3> "Mamma," said Dimple, with her elbows on the arm of her mother's chair, "what are you thinking about so hard? You have a little puckery frown between your eyes, whenever you look at Florence and me. What have we been doing?" "Nothing," replied Mrs. Dallas, smiling. "I was wondering if it would be wise to leave you two alone here with Bubbles for a day. Mrs. Hardy wants me to go to the city with her to-morrow, and I promised Sylvy some time ago that she should have the day; she wants to go off on an excursion, and has been making great preparations. I could not have the heart to disappoint her, and your papa will not be at home for another week, so I am very doubtful about leaving you." "Oh! do go, mamma," cried Dimple, clapping her hands. "We can keep house beautifully, can't we, Florence?—and it will be such fun. Do go, there's a darling. We'll be just as grown-up as possible, and do anything you tell us." "And you will not be afraid?" "Not in the least. We'll have Bubbles, you know, and she can run awfully fast, if we get ill, and want the doctor," replied Dimple, cheerfully. "I hope no such effort will be needed on Bubbles' part. You must not turn the house upside down, nor empty all the trunks and chests upon the floor of the attic." "Now, mamma," exclaimed Dimple, reproachfully, "why do you remind us of that?" Mrs. Dallas laughed at the woe-begone tone. "That you may remember not to do it again," she replied; then she added, "Well, I'll think about it a little longer. I promised to let Mrs. Hardy know this afternoon. Now run along and let me think." "You will tell us as soon as you make up your mind," said Dimple, as she left the room with Florence. "Yes, yes; don't keep me any longer from my 'think.'" "Don't you hope she will go?" asked Florence. "I think it would be lots of fun to have the house all to ourselves for a whole day. What shall we do, Dimple?" "Oh, there will be lots to do," replied Dimple, importantly. "There will be the beds to make, and the house to put in order, and dinner to get. Oh, Florence! What shall we have for dinner? What should you like?" "I don't know, exactly; baked custards are nice." "Yes," assented Dimple, doubtfully, "but I'm afraid we couldn't manage to make them just right; they seem sort of hard; and you don't like huckleberry pudding." "Then let's have apple 'cobbler;' we both like that." "Yes, and it is easy, at least I think it is, just crust and apples. Well, we'll have that. I do wish mamma would hurry up and tell us." The two established themselves on the lowest step, as near as possible to the library, where Mrs. Dallas was sitting. "Don't make such a noise," said Dimple, as Florence, to while away the time, began to sing; "you will keep mamma from thinking. Just let's whisper." So for a half hour or more a little whispering sound went on, interspersed by stifled laughter. Then at the noise of Mrs. Dallas' hand upon the door knob, the two girls sprang to their feet. "Hurry up, mamma, tell us," cried Dimple, as the door opened. "When you give me a chance," replied Mrs. Dallas, smiling. "I am going. Does that please you?" "Oh! oh!" cried the two, dancing up and down. "How flattering you are," said Mrs. Dallas, laughing; "I never had pleasure so fully shown for such a cause. So you will be delighted to get rid of me?" "Now mamma! Now auntie!" came in chorus. "It isn't that at all, but it will be such fun, and we are going to make an 'apple cobbler' for dinner." "Are you! Who said so?" "Why, mayn't we?" asked Dimple, somewhat taken aback. "Who will make it?" "Why, we will, of course. I've seen Sylvy do it often, and I know exactly how. Do, do let us, mamma." It seemed too bad to dampen their ardor, and Mrs. Dallas, rather dubiously, consented, but charged them not to eat under cooked dough, or raw apples. Every one was up betimes the next morning. Sylvy had set everything in readiness for breakfast, and had taken an early departure, and Mrs. Dallas was to leave on the nine o'clock train. "I shall be back by eight o'clock," she told the children. "Don't set the house afire, and don't make yourselves ill." "Now, don't worry over us," said Dimple, loftily; "we shall do finely." But she did feel a little sinking of heart as her mamma's form was lost to view, and the two girls turned from the gate. "I wish Rock were not going with them," remarked Dimple. "It would be nice to have him here." "I don't think it would," replied Florence; "we'd have to entertain him, and maybe he doesn't like 'apple cobbler.'" "That is true," returned Dimple, her spirits rising at the suggestion of some active employment. "Now let us go and make the beds, while Bubbles does the dishes." And they set to work, with much chattering, to follow out this duty. "There, now, it looks as neat as possible," pronounced Dimple, as she closed the shutters to keep out the glaring sun. "Just hang up that towel that has fallen down, Florence, and then we'll go downstairs and shut up the rest of the house; by that time Bubbles will be through her work, and we can all play till it is time to get dinner." Bubbles had just emptied her dish-pan and was about to scour the knives when they entered the kitchen. "Hurry up, Bubbles," said Dimple, "so we can all go out and play. We want you to take care of Celestine and Rubina, while we go out shopping. Mamma said we might use the pieces in this," holding out a calico bag. "That is, we are just going to roll them up and have them for dry goods. The dry goods shop is to be at the end of the porch, where the bench is. We have cut out a great big newspaper man to sell the goods. We'll have to pin him against the railing, Florence, or he won't stand up, he is so limp. Isn't he fine and tall? His name is Mr. Star, because we cut him out of the Evening Star." Their play proved to be so very interesting that it was after twelve o'clock before the little housekeepers remembered that they had a dinner to prepare, and that the making and baking of their apple pie would take some time. Then it appeared that Bubbles, in her haste to join the play, had forgotten the fire, which was nearly out. "Never mind, we'll put in some wood," concluded Dimple, cheerfully. "I've seen Sylvy do it lots of times, to hurry up the oven. Run, Bubbles, and get some wood. Then you can pare the apples, while I make the crust." "Let me pare the apples," suggested Florence; "it is such fun to put them on that little thing and turn the crank, while the skin comes off so easily." "Well, you do that," agreed Dimple. "And Bubbles can set the table." "Why doesn't this apple go right?" said Florence. "It wabbles around so and—there!—it has gone bouncing off to the other side of the kitchen; how provoking!" "It is a sort of 'skew-jawed' one," pronounced Dimple. "I can never do anything with those on the parer. Pick out the ones that are perfectly round and smooth, and they will go all right. I wonder how much shortening I ought to put in. Does that look like enough to you?" Florence viewed the pan critically. "I don't know," she replied, doubtfully. "I don't believe I know much about it; it looks like a pretty big lump." "Oh, I'll call it enough," decided Dimple. "There, it is ready to roll out. Somehow, it doesn't roll very easily." "Let me try," offered Florence, who, having finished paring the apples, was watching her cousin. "It is not easy," she said, after banging away with the rolling-pin. "Maybe Bubbles can do it; her arms are stronger;" and, after this third effort, some sort of crust was ready, with which to line the pan. "It seems pretty thick," Dimple declared, looking at it with a dissatisfied eye; "but it is the best we can do." "Oh, it will taste all right," encouraged Florence. "Now for the apples; what else, Dimple?" "Sugar, and little bits of butter and—what else? Oh, yes, a little sprinkling of flour. Now the top goes on, and it can go into the oven. I wonder how long it will take to bake. It is one o'clock, and I am beginning to get hungry. "The oven isn't very hot," she presently pronounced. "Put some more wood in, Bubbles. Oh, what is the matter, Florence?" as an exclamation made her turn in her cousin's direction. "I have burned my hand," said Florence, trying hard not to cry. "I wanted to look at the fire, and when I lifted the lid, the steam from the kettle came just where I put my hand. I didn't know steam could burn so." "It is worse than anything else," informed Dimple. "It is too bad. I'll get something to put on it, to take the burn out." "Kar'sene's mighty good," suggested Bubbles. "Yes, and so is flour; and linseed oil is good; that will be the best," and the bottle being brought, the wounded hand was bound up and Florence retired from action and sat on the step watching the others, while she nursed her hurt. "Let me see," went on Dimple, bustling about. "We have chicken, and bread and butter, and sliced tomatoes, and milk, and the 'cobbler.' It is doing, Florence; it is beginning to brown." "I wish it would hurry up," Florence said. "I'm hungry, and, oh! how my hand hurts." "Isn't it any better?" "A little; but it doesn't feel a bit good." "It is too bad," said Dimple, sympathetically, coming over and putting a floury hand on her cousin's. "I smell the pie," she exclaimed, jumping up. "It must be burning," and she ran to the oven. "Is it burned?" asked Florence, anxiously. "No, only just a weeny bit caught. I'll take it out. Doesn't it look good?" Florence gave an admiring assent, and they proceeded to take their meal; but alas!—when the pie was cut a mass of sticky dough and raw apple was disclosed to the disappointment of them all. "We'll have to put it back and eat it after awhile," said Florence. "It will taste just as good then." "Yes, and we can eat cake for dessert," and the pie was again placed in the oven. Not long after, a rapping was heard at the side porch. "Who in the world can that be around there!" exclaimed Dimple. "Go and see, Bubbles." Bubbles looked out, cautiously, for it was not the usual place for any one to make an appearance. Presently she came back with big eyes and a somewhat scared expression. "Hit's a man, Miss Dimple," she said, in an excited whisper, "with a gre't big haid an' long hair, an' somethin' on his back." Florence and Dimple looked at each other. "Let's peep and see," whispered the latter, as the rapping, which had ceased, began again. They peeped timidly through the shutters. "He looks queer," said Dimple, "maybe he is crazy." "Oh!" cried Florence, with a stifled scream, "maybe he is an escaped lunatic. Dimple, let's lock all the doors, and hide," and the two ran into the kitchen, barring and locking the door, and then raced upstairs as fast as they could go, with Bubbles close following at their heels. Florence buried her face in the pillows and covered up her head with the bed clothes; Bubbles crawled under the bed, then, as the rapping continued louder than before, interspersed with calls of "Hey, there! Hey, there!" Dimple, feeling very brave, opened the window and cried out, "Go away!" then she shut down the window with a slam, and sprang into the middle of the room with very red cheeks and a beating heart. After a little time all was quiet, and the three timidly ventured downstairs to find the pie baked to such a crisp brownness, that it barely escaped being called black. It was set aside to cool, and after a short parley, the children set out to reconnoitre, armed with such weapons as they thought most useful. Bubbles carried an axe, Florence a bottle of ammonia, which she meant to throw in the face of the intruder "to take his breath away," she declared; and Dimple bore a long rope and a pair of large scissors. She intended, she said, to snip at the man if he came near her, and, when he was overpowered by Florence's ammonia, to bind him hand and foot with the rope. But, after a long and thorough search, no one was found about the premises, and they all returned to the house to eat the "cobbler," which by this time was cool. "It doesn't taste like Sylvy's," said Dimple. "I believe I forgot to put any salt in the crust, and where it isn't hard it is tough; there! I didn't put any water in it, of course there is scarcely any juice. I was going to save some for mamma, but I don't think I shall. We'll give it away to the first person we can," she continued to Florence. This happened to be an organ grinder, who made his appearance at the gate. Bubbles was despatched with the message that they hadn't any money, but there was some pie, and the organ grinder departed, whether grateful or not, they did not learn. "It seems to me it has been a pretty long day," said Dimple, as the afternoon wore on. "Five o'clock. Three hours before we can possibly expect mamma. I should think she would get dreadfully tired of housekeeping," she continued, remembering her discouraging pie. "I don't feel as if I wanted any supper, do you, Florence?" "Not now," replied Florence; "but your mamma will want some." "Oh, well, Bubbles can attend to it," decided Dimple. "I'm tired of seeing dishes and dabs. What shall we do next, Florence?" "We haven't cleared up the porch yet. Mr. Star is out there and all the pieces." "Sure enough. Well, we'll get those put away, and then we can dress. I wonder what became of the crazy man." "Why do you remind me of him?" said Florence, plaintively. "I had almost forgotten, and now I shall dream of him." "I don't believe he was crazy," said Dimple. "I suppose he had something to sell. I thought so at the time, but I began, to get scared and couldn't stop. Roll up Mr. Star, Florence, we may want him again. There! I have the bag and all the rest of the things. You bring Mr. Star and the dolls." Just here came a "Hallo!" from around the corner of the house. The children gave a suppressed scream which changed into a hearty laugh when Rock appeared; and with words tumbling over each other they began to give a breathless recital of the day's experiences which amused Rock vastly. "But how did you happen to be here?" the girls remembered at last to ask. "We thought you had gone to the city." "No, I didn't go after all. Mr. Brisk was going off in the country, and mamma gave me my choice of places, so I thought I'd not enjoy going shopping very much, and I decided to go with Mr. Brisk. We got back about half an hour ago, and I came over to see if you wouldn't go back to the house with me. I want to show you something I found." "What is it?" "Wait till you see." "I'm afraid we oughtn't to leave the house," said Dimple. "Can't you lock it up? We won't be gone long, and I'll come back and stay with you till your mother comes. Then I can walk home with my mother, for she'll stop here first." "That will be very nice, but I don't believe we dare lock it up." "Let Bubbles stay." But Bubbles' eyes nearly popped out of her head at this suggestion; and, finally, after many plans Rock went over to the house of the man whom Mr. Dallas employed to take care of the garden and stable, and he promised to stay on the place to give Bubbles countenance, till the others should return. "I've got a job over there, anyhow," he said, "though I mostly leaves about this time, but I can do what I have to do as well now as in the morning." Therefore the children felt perfectly safe in leaving Bubbles. Rock led the way to Mr. Brisk's workhouse. "What I've to show you is in here," he said. The girls followed him somewhat timidly, but were reassured when Rock drew out a box of shavings where, cuddled up, they saw a cat and three little bits of kittens. "Oh! how cunning," cried Dimple, getting down on her knees. "You little tootsy-wootsy, deary things. Aren't they soft? Oh! if we might have them. There are three, just one a piece. Rock, don't you believe we might have them?" "We'll go and ask," said Rock, and they ran pell-mell into the house. "What is the matter?" said Mr. Brisk, starting up lest something were wrong. "We are only going to ask Mrs. Brisk if we may have the kittens," they cried, breathlessly. Mrs. Brisk was standing in the hall, and heard their story. "Well! Well! Well!" she said. "If old Topple hasn't another lot of kittens. Have them? To be sure you may, and welcome, when they are big enough to take from their mother." The girls clapped their hands delightedly and went back to the little blind things, who, with their tight shut eyes, were mewing and nosing against each other. "Now let's choose," said Rock, after they had taken them out on the grass where it was lighter. "Two black, and one black and white. If you girls like the black ones best I'll take the other, or if either of you like that best, I'll take one of the black ones." So, after much talking, Dimple chose a black one, and Florence the black and white, while Rock expressed himself delighted with the other black one as really what he liked the best. "I shall name mine Jet," said he. "And mine I'll name Onyx, and call it Nyxy for short," said Dimple. "And mine shall be Marble," said Florence. So that question being decided they left them, "like birds in their nest," said Dimple, and started for home, for it was growing late. "We couldn't carry the kittens home to-night, anyhow," said Florence; "but I do hope we can see them often, and that I can take mine home." She did take it home, and it grew to be a big cat; though before she went, the children often laughed to see Rock coming in with the three little things in a basket, bringing them over for a visit. He did this several times, taking them back to their mother, until one day they came to stay. Although time dragged, eight o'clock did come at last, and the hour brought Mrs. Dallas. "And you are really glad to have me back again," she said, with an arm around each little girl, "though you were so glad to have me go. And how did the pie turn out?" "It wasn't good," admitted Dimple, candidly; "so we gave it to an organ-grinder." "What charitable, generous children, to be sure," laughed Mrs. Dallas. "By the way, Dimple, I forgot to tell you that possibly the paperhanger might be here; he was to come one day this week to paper the upper hall." Dimple looked at Florence and Florence looked at Dimple. "We thought he was a crazy man," presently said the latter, in a shamefaced way. "Crazy! Why, what do you mean?" "He came to the side door," explained Dimple. "Those were rolls of paper on his back, Florence, and we got frightened and wouldn't let him in." "You silly little geese! I see I must not leave you again." "But everything else was all right," Florence informed her, "only I burned my hand a little. I had almost forgotten it, Dimple." "Then you don't want me to go away, altogether," said Mrs. Dallas. "No indeed," said they both, in the most emphatic manner. "You dearest, loveliest," continued Dimple; "it is too delicious to see you again." "And I didn't dream about the crazy man after all," said Florence, the next morning. <hr class="major" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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