The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe: or, There's No Place Like Home. Douglas Amanda M.
What I'd like most of all" – and Hal made a long pause.
"Even if it's murder, we'll forgive you and love you," went on tormenting Joe.
"O Joe, don't!" besought Florence. "I want to hear what Hal will choose, for I know just what I'd like to have happen to me."
"So do I," announced Charlie confidently.
"I don't know that I can have it," said Hal slowly; "for it costs a good deal, though I might make a small beginning. It's raising lovely fruit and flowers, and having a great hot-house, with roses and lilies and dear white blossoms in the middle of the winter. I should love them so much! They always seem like little children to me, with God for their father, and we who take care of them for a stepmother; though stepmothers are not always good, and the poor wicked ones would be those who did not love flowers. Why, it would be like fairy-land, – a great long hot-house, with glass overhead, and all the air sweet with roses and heliotrope and mignonette. And it would be so soft and still in there, and so very, very beautiful! It seems to me as if heaven must be full of flowers."
"Could you sell 'em if you were poor?" asked Charlie, in a low voice.
"Not the flowers in heaven! Charlie, you're a heathen."
"I didn't mean that! Don't you suppose I know about heaven!" retorted Charlie warmly.
"Yes," admitted Joe with a laugh: "he could sell them, and make lots of money. And there are ever so many things: why, Mr. Green paid six cents apiece for some choice tomato-plants."
"When I'm a man, I think I'll do that. I mean to try next summer in my garden."
"May I tell now?" asked Charlie, who was near exploding with her secret.
"Yes. Great things," said Joe.
"I'm going to run away!" And Charlie gave her head an exultant toss, that, owing to the darkness, was lost to her audience.
Joe laughed to his utmost capacity, which was not small. The old garret fairly rang again.
Florence uttered a horrified exclamation; and Kit said, —
"I'll go with you!"
"Girls don't run away," remarked Hal gravely.
"But I mean to, and it'll be royal fun," was the confident reply.
"Where will you go? and will you beg from door to door?" asked Joe quizzically.
"No: I'm going out in the woods," was the undaunted rejoinder. "I mean to find a nice cave; and I'll bring in a lot of good dry leaves and some straw, and make a bed. Then I'll gather berries; and I know how to catch fish, and I can make a fire and fry them. I'll have a gay time going off to the river and rambling round, and there'll be no lessons to plague a body to death. It will be just splendid."
"Suppose a bear comes along and eats you up?" suggested Joe.
"As if there were any bears around here!" Charlie returned with immense disdain.
"Well, a snake, or a wild-cat!"
"I'm not afraid of snakes."
"But you'd want a little bread."
"Oh! I'd manage about that. I do mean to run away some time, just for fun."
"You'll be glad to run back again!"
"You see, now!" was the decisive reply.
"Florentina, it is your turn now. We have had age before beauty."
Florence tossed her soft curls, and went through with a few pretty airs.
"I shouldn't run away," she said slowly; "but I'd like to go, for all that. Sometimes, as I sit by the window sewing, and see an elegant carriage pass by, I think, what if there should be an old gentleman in it, who had lost his wife and all his children, and that one of his little girls looked like – like me? And if he should stop and ask me for a drink, I'd go to the well and draw a fresh, cool bucketful" —
"From the north side – that's the coldest," interrupted Joe.
"Hush, Joe! No one laughed at you!"
"Laugh! Why, I am sober as an owl."
"Then I'd give him a drink. I wish we could have some goblets: tumblers look so dreadfully old-fashioned. I mean to buy one, at least, some time. He would ask me about myself; and I'd tell him that we were all orphans, and had been very unfortunate, and that our grandmother was old" —
"'Four score and ten of us, poor old maids, —
Four score and ten of us,
Without a penny in our puss,
Poor old maids,'"
sang Joe pathetically, cutting short the purse on account of the rhyme.
"O Joe, you are too bad! I won't tell any more."
"Yes, do!" entreated Hal. "And so he liked you on account of the resemblance, and wanted to adopt you."
"Exactly! Hal, how could you guess it?" returned Florence, much mollified. "And so he would take me to a beautiful house, where there were plenty of servants, and get me lovely clothes to wear; and there would be lots of china and silver and elegant furniture and a piano. I'd go to school, and study music and drawing, and never have to sew or do any kind of work. Then I'd send you nice presents home; and, when you were fixed up a little, you should come and see me. And maybe, Hal, as you grew older, he would help you about getting a hot-house. I think when I became a woman, I would take Dot to educate."
"I've heard of fairy godmothers before, but this seems to be a godfather. Here's luck to your old covey, Florrie, drunk in imaginary champagne."
"Joe, I wish you wouldn't use slang phrases, nor be so disrespectful."
"I'm afraid I'll have to keep clear of the palace."
"Oh, if it only could be!" sighed Hal. "I think Flo was meant for a lady."
Florence smiled inwardly at hearing this. It was her opinion also.
"Here, Kit, are you asleep?" And Joe pulled him out of the pile by one leg. "Wake up, and give us your heart's desire."
Kit indulged in a vigorous kick, which Joe dodged.
"It'll be splendid," began Kit, "especially the piano. I've had my hands over my eyes, making stars; and I was thinking" —
"That's just what we want, Chief of the Mohawk Valley. Don't keep us in suspense."
"I'm going to save up my money, like some one Hal was reading about the other day, and buy a fiddle."
A shout of laughter greeted this announcement, it sounded so comical.
Kit rubbed his eyes in amazement, and failed to see any thing amusing. Then he said indignantly, —
"You needn't make such a row!"
"But what will you do with a fiddle? You might tie a string to Charlie, and take her along for a monkey; or you might both go round singing in a squeaky voice, —
'Two orphan boys of Switzerland.'"
"You're real mean, Joe," said Kit, with his voice full of tears.
"Kit, I'll give you the violin myself when I get rich," Florence exclaimed in a comforting tone, her soft hand smoothing down the refractory scalp-lock; "but I would say violin, it sounds so much nicer. And then you'll play."
"Play!" enunciated Kit in a tone that I cannot describe, as if that were a weak word for the anticipated performance. "I'd make her talk! They'd sit there and listen, – a whole houseful of people it would be, you know; and when I first came out with my fiddle, – violin. I mean, – they would look at me as if they thought I couldn't do much. I'd begin with a slow sound, like the wind wailing on a winter night, – I guess I'd have it a storm, and a little lost child, for you can make almost any thing with a violin; and the cries should grow fainter and fainter, for she would be chilled and worn out; and presently it should drop down into the snow, and there'd be the softest, strangest music you ever heard. The crowd would listen and listen, and hold their