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Prudence of the Parsonage. Ethel Hueston
parsonage girls always capitalized the Ladies of their father's church, and indeed italicized them, as well. And the irrepressible Carol had been heard to remark, "I often feel like exclamation-pointing them, I promise you." But to return once more.
"One of us should go and help the dear child," said Mrs. Scott, the president of the Aids, when they assembled for their business meeting, "help her, and welcome her, and advise her."
"I was thinking of going over," said one, and another, and several others.
"Oh, that will not do at all," said the president; "she would be excited meeting so many strangers, and could not properly attend to her work. That will never do, never, never! But one of us must go, of course."
"I move that the president appoint a committee of one to help Miss Prudence get settled, and welcome her to our midst," said Mrs. Barnaby, secretly hoping that in respect for her making this suggestion honoring the president, the president would have appreciation enough to appoint Mrs. Barnaby herself as committee.
The motion was seconded, and carried.
"Well," said Mrs. Scott slowly, "I think in a case like this the president herself should represent the society. Therefore, I will undertake this duty for you."
But this called forth a storm of protest and it became so clamorous that it was unofficially decided to draw cuts! Which was done, and in consequence of that drawing of cuts, Mrs. Adams now sat on the front porch of the old gray parsonage, cheered by the knowledge that every other Lady of the Aid was envying her!
"Now, just be real sociable and tell me all about yourself, and the others, too," urged Mrs. Adams. "I want to know all about every one of you. Tell me everything."
"There isn't much to tell," said Prudence, smiling. "There are five of us; I am the oldest, I am nineteen. Then comes Fairy, then the twins, and then the baby."
"Are the twins boys, or a boy and a girl?"
"Neither," said Prudence, "they are both girls."
"More girls!" gasped Mrs. Adams. "And the baby?"
"She is a girl, too." And Prudence laughed. "In short, we are all girls except father. He couldn't be, of course—or I suppose he would, for our family does seem to run to girls."
"Prudence is a very nice name for a minister's daughter," said Mrs. Adams suggestively.
"Yes—for some ministers' daughters," assented Prudence. "But is sadly unsuitable for me. You see, father and mother were very enthusiastic about the first baby who hadn't arrived. They had two names all picked out months ahead—Prudence and John Wesley. That's how I happen to be Prudence. They thought, as you do, that it was an uplifting name for a parsonage baby.—I was only three years old when Fairy was born, but already they realized that they had made a great mistake. So they decided to christen baby number two more appropriately. They chose Frank and Fairy—both light-hearted, happy, cheerful names.—It's Fairy," Prudence smiled reflectively. "But things went badly again. They were very unlucky with their babies. Fairy is Prudence by nature, and I am Fairy. She is tall and a little inclined to be fat. She is steady, and industrious, and reliable, and sensible, and clever. In fact, she is an all-round solid and worthwhile girl. She can do anything, and do it right, and is going to be a college professor. It is a sad thing to think of a college professor being called Fairy all her life, isn't it? Especially when she is so dignified and grand. But one simply can't tell beforehand what to expect, can one?
"Father and mother were quite discouraged by that time. They hardly knew what to do. But anyhow they were sure the next would be a boy. Every one predicted a boy, and so they chose a good old Methodist name—Charles. They hated to give it John Wesley, for they had sort of dedicated that to me, you know—only I happened to be Prudence. But Charles was second-best. And they were very happy about it, and—it was twin girls! It was quite a blow, I guess. But they rallied swiftly, and called them Carol and Lark. Such nice musical names! Father and mother were both good singers, and mother a splendid pianist. And Fairy and I showed musical symptoms early in life, so they thought they couldn't be far wrong that time. It was a bitter mistake. It seemed to turn the twins against music right from the start. Carol can carry a tune if there's a strong voice beside her, but Lark can hardly tell the difference between Star Spangled Banner and Rock of Ages.
"The neighbors were kind of amused by then, and mother was very sensitive about it. So the next time she determined to get ahead of Fate. 'No more nonsense, now,' said mother. 'It's almost certain to be a boy, and we'll call him William after father—and Billy for short.' We all liked the name Billy, mother especially. But she couldn't call father anything but William—we being parsonage people, you know. But she kept looking forward to little Billy—and then they changed it in a hurry to Constance. And after that, father and mother gave the whole thing up as a bad job. There aren't any more of us. Connie settled the baby business in our family."
Mrs. Adams wiped her eyes, and leaned weakly back in her chair, gasping for breath. "Well, I swan!" was all she could say at that moment.
While giving herself time to recover her mental poise she looked critically at this young daughter of the parsonage. Then her eyes wandered down to her clothes, and lingered, in silent questioning, on Prudence's dress. It was a very peculiar color. In fact, it was no color at all—no named color. Prudence's eyes had followed Mrs. Adams' glance, and she spoke frankly.
"I suppose you're wondering if this dress is any color! Well, I think it really is, but it isn't any of the regular shades. It is my own invention, but I've never named it. We couldn't think of anything appropriate. Carol suggested 'Prudence Shade,' but I couldn't bring myself to accept that. Of course, Mrs. Adams, you understand how parsonage people do with clothes—handing them down from generation unto generation. Well, I didn't mind it at first—when I was the biggest. But all of a sudden Fairy grew up and out and around, and one day when I was so nearly out of clothes I hardly felt that I could attend church any more, she suggested that I cut an old one of hers down for me! At first I laughed, and then I was insulted. Fairy is three years younger than I, and before then she had got my handed-downs. But now the tables were turned. From that time on, whenever anything happened to Fairy's clothes so a gore had to be cut out, or the bottom taken off—they were cut down for me. I still feel bitter about it. Fairy is dark, and dark blues are becoming to her. She handed down this dress—it was dark blue then. But I was not wanting a dark blue, and I thought it would be less recognizable if I gave it a contrasting color. I chose lavender. I dyed it four times, and this was the result."
"Do the twins dress alike?" inquired Mrs. Adams, when she could control her voice.
"Yes—unfortunately for Connie. They do it on purpose to escape the handed-downs! They won't even have hair ribbons different. And the result is that poor Connie never gets one new thing except shoes. She says she can not help thanking the Lord in her prayers, that all of us outwear our shoes before we can outgrow them.—Connie is only nine. Fairy is sixteen, and the twins are thirteen. They are a very clever lot of girls. Fairy, as I told you, is just naturally smart, and aims to be a college professor. Lark is an intelligent studious girl, and is going to be an author. Carol is pretty, and lovable, and kind-hearted, and witty—but not deep. She is going to be a Red Cross nurse and go to war. The twins have it all planned out. Carol is going to war as a Red Cross nurse, and Lark is going, too, so she can write a book about it, and they are both going to marry soldiers—preferably dashing young generals! Now they can hardly wait for war to break out. Connie is a sober, odd, sensitive little thing, and hasn't decided whether she wants to be a foreign missionary, or get married and have ten children.—But they are all clever, and I'm proud of every one of them."
"And what are you going to be?" inquired Mrs. Adams, looking with real affection at the bright sweet face.
But Prudence laughed. "Oh, dear me, Mrs. Adams, seems to me if I just get the others raised up properly, I'll have my hands full. I used to have aims, dozens of them. Now I have just one, and I'm working at it every day."
"You ought to go to school," declared Mrs. Adams. "You're just a girl yourself."
"I don't want to go to school,"