Aunt Madge's Story Part 4

I did not understand this speech of Mrs. Bean's, which Lize Jane repeated with such a solemn snap of her black eyes; but it came to me years afterwards, and I think it the worst teaching a mother could give her little child. No wonder Lize Jane was full of envy and spite.

"But you'll ask me to _your_ party, won't you?" said she, with a coaxing smile.

"I can't, if I don't have one, Lize Jane."

"You're a-makin' believe, Mag Parlin. You will have one; how can you help it, with a garden full of gooseb'ries and rubub?"

"And thimbleberries, too," added I, surveying the premises with a gloomy eye. We certainly had enough to eat, and it was a very strange thing that I couldn't give a party.

"Has your mother got any cake in the house?" added Lize.

"Yes, lots in the tin chest; but she never lets me eat a speck, hardly," bemoaned I. I was not in the habit of talking to Lize Jane of family matters; but she had shown so much good sense in saying I ought to have a party, that my heart was touched.

"Your mother, seems to me, she never lets you do a thing," returned Lize Jane, in a pitying tone. "Ain't you goin' to have a silk pairsol, like Fel Allen's? I should think you might."

She had driven the nail straight to the mark that time. I could have wailed; but was I going to have Lize Jane go home and tell that I was a baby? No! and I spoke up very pertly,--

"Where's _your_ pairsol, Lize Jane Bean? You never had one any more 'n me."

"No; but there's something I have got, though, better than that. Good to eat, too. And I'll tell you what; if you'll ask me to your party, I'll bring you some in a covered dish."

"What is it, Lize? Ice cream?"

For her face was wondrous sweet.

"Ice cream! How'd you s'pose I kep' that froze? No!" and the bewitching sparkle of her eye called up luscious ideas. I could almost see apricot preserves, pine apples, and honey-heart cherries floating in the air. But why was it a covered dish? "Somethin' nuff sight better 'n ice cream, but I shan't tell what."

"O, I wish you'd bring it to me in the covered dish, 'thout any party, for my mother won't let me have one, Lize, now truly."

"Then you can't have the--what I was goin' to bring," said Lize Jane, firmly.

"That's too bad," I cried; but it was of no use talking; she couldn't be moved any more than the gravel walk, or the asparagus bed.

"Your mother ain't much sick, is she?"

"Not now," replied I; "her strength is better."

"Well, then, why don't you ask some girls to come, and she'll get 'em some supper; see if she don't."

I was so shocked that I almost fell into a currant bush.

"Lize Jane Bean, what you talking about?"

"Why, you said your mother warn't sick."

"No, her strength is better, but she don't 'low me to do things, Lize Jane Bean, 'thout--'thout she lets me."

"Of course not; but I guess she don't know you want a party so dreadful bad, Maggie, or she _would_ let you. I don't believe your mother is ugly."

"But she never said I might have a party, though."

"No, for she don't think about it. She ain't a bad woman, your mother ain't, only she don't think. Your mother don't _mean_ to be ugly."

Lize Jane spoke in a large-hearted way, at the same time stripping currant-stems very industriously. "She'd feel glad afterwards, s'posing you _did_ have a party, I'll bet."

"O, Lize Jane, what a girl! 's if I'd do it 'thout my mother said I might."

"O, I didn't mean a real big party; did you s'pose I did? I didn't know but you could ask me and some of the girls to supper, and not call it a party. We'd play ou' doors."

"O, I didn't know _that's_ what you meant. But I can't,--'cause,--'cause."--

"Well, you needn't, if you don't want to; but I didn't know but you'd like to see that--what I's going to bring."

"But I can't be naughty, and get tied to the bed-post," said I, thoughtfully. "Is that what you's going to bring, something I never saw in all my life, Lize Jane?"

"Yes, I'm certain sure you never."

And she made up another delicious face, that filled the air around with sweet visions.

"And would you bring it if I didn't ask but--but--two girls?"

"No, I don't _think_ I could," replied Lize Jane, squinting her eyes in deep meditation. "I don't hardly think I _could_; but if you had four girls I'd bring it, and _risk_ it."

"Four 'thout you?"

"No, me 'n three more, if you're so dreadful scared."

That settled the matter. With my usual rashness I cried out,--

"Well, I'll ask 'em."

CHAPTER V.

THE PARTY.

I went to bed that night in great excitement, and I dare say did not get to sleep for ten minutes or so. What strange thing was this I was about to do?

"Well," said I, "it's only four girls, that's all. I know my mamma 'd be glad to have me have 'em, but I don't dare ask her; so I'll have 'em _'thout_ asking. She says she wants her little daughter to be happy. That's what she says; but she don't give me no pairsol. How'd she 'spect I's goin' to be happy? But I could be some happy if I had four girls,--not a party, but four girls."

The next day was Sat.u.r.day, the day I had agreed upon with Lize Jane. I chewed my bonnet-strings all the way to school, and never invited Fel till we got into the entry. At recess I asked Abby Gray and Dunie Foster; that made up the four girls. But when school was out, I happened to think I might as well have a few more, and singled out Sallie Gordon, Mary Vance, and Anna Carey; but Phebe Grant was standing close by, and I knew she would be "mad" if I didn't ask her; and after that I flew about and dropped invitations right and left, till I entirely forgot that I was doing it without leave. "I want you to come to my house, to my party, to-morrow afternoon,"--began to sound perfectly proper.

Instead of speaking _twice_ before I thought, I spoke thirty or forty times. I didn't slight anybody. I asked all the First and Second Reader cla.s.ses, and the little specks of girls in A B C. They all looked very much pleased. Some of them had never been invited to a party before, and didn't know enough to find the way to "my house;"

but I thought, while I was about it, I might as well make a clean sweep: it was no wickeder to have a big party than a little one. I was sorry enough that boys were not in fashion, for I wanted a few. There was Tommy Gordon in particular, who always had his pockets full of "lickerish" and pep'mints; it was as much as I could do to help asking him. As for Gust Allen, I would as soon have had a wild monkey, and that is the truth.