Tales of the Toys, Told by Themselves Part 6

"Next morning, when Ethel was washed and dressed, and went into the day nursery to breakfast, Alan beckoned her out with a very grave face, and told her to follow him down to the school-room. She did so, full of curiosity at the unusual event; but when he opened the door and led her in, she was still further puzzled. The tablecloth was laid for breakfast for the elder ones, but the blinds were all down, and on the table lay something stretched out under a towel.

[Ill.u.s.tration: DOLLY'S ATTACK OF THE MEASLES. _Page 94._]

"'Take it off and look, Ethel,' said Alan; and when she did so, she started back in horror, for there I lay, with my face and throat all covered with bright red round spots. 'She has got the measles, Ethel,'

said Alan, going off into roars of mischievous laughter.

"Poor Ethel shrieked and rushed away, sobbing as if her heart would break, till there was such a commotion that Papa came in to see what was the matter. He was very angry indeed with Alan, and told him how cruel it was to frighten a younger child, and a girl too, in this manner; and Alan's explanation that it was only to punish Ethel for teasing little Harold did not make matters better.

"'You have no authority to punish any of your brothers and sisters,'

said Mr. Johnson; 'and you have only reduced yourself to the level of Ethel's childish naughtiness by playing a trick very unworthy of you, and that might have led to worse results. Frightening any one is the most cruel sport that exists, and one of the most dangerous. When you fell out of the boat at Barmouth three months ago, Alan, you would have thought it very cruel of me to keep you holding on to the side of the boat, just to laugh at your fright at being so nearly drowned!'

"'But Ethel's fright was so silly and unreasonable,' muttered Alan.

"'So are most alarms, Alan, but they cause the same suffering, and are sometimes as hurtful in their consequences. Don't let me ever hear of any thing of the kind again. You are, I know, very fond of all your brothers and sisters, and would not give them any pain willingly. Now remember, my boy, in future, that a pain of the mind, such as this fright, is infinitely worse than a severe blow, and it is not manly to hurt the weaker ones in any way.'

"Alan was really sorry for the end of his freak, and he kissed Ethel, and remembered the lesson I have no doubt. But the silly little girl never liked me again, although Nurse washed me white, in her careful way, scrubbing off all the red paint with which Alan had so profusely embellished me. And after a while I had so completely fallen into oblivion, that I was undisturbed, till one evening, some years after, when Ethel was fifteen, and had forgotten all about my early disfigurement, I was fetched out to amuse little Florry Spenser, who drank tea there, and she cuddled me up so tight, and was so loath to part with me, that she was allowed to carry me home, and played with me for some days. My reign, however, did not last very long, for when her aunt gave her a very grand new wax baby, I was cast aside, and have lived here ever since in the deepest seclusion, as you are all aware.

And now, my friends, I have done my poor best in your service, and have finished."

And the Doll sank back with a weary sigh.

The Ball, who, by virtue of having been the first story teller, seemed to have taken on himself the office of spokesman, made the Doll an elaborate compliment on her story, and then, as her representative, requested the Toy Kitchen to take up the next story.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER VII.

THE TOY KITCHEN; AND ITS MAKER.

"Which mine, said the Kitchen, will take you, I am afraid, ladies and gentlemen, into a lower cla.s.s of society than you are used to. I am not much of a hand at telling stories, and can't find words to say what I would, but I'll do my best. My first start in life is very easily described, for I am the handiwork of an old man who lived in a dark underground kitchen in one of the back streets of Westminster. Old Joe's neighbours were not, I am afraid, at all of a respectable kind, setting apart their poverty; but the old man held himself aloof and earned his scanty living, troubling no one, and interfering with none. From all I have heard him mutter to himself in his odd way while he was busy, and from what I heard his only visitor say, I think he must have been a paper-hanger or carpenter. But he had been disabled from active work by a fall from a window which he was cleaning, and after that, had been sorely put to it, in order to earn a living. I am sure he must have had two little children at some time or other, and no doubt lost them from some of the countless illnesses which lie ready in waiting, like great flocks of wolves, for the _poor_ children in great cities. Perhaps the wolf in their case was called "Fever," or perhaps "Cholera"; or, more likely still, "Hunger," or "Want of fresh air"; but all I can tell is that they were both dead since their mother, who must have died and left them all early, and poor old Joe then cared no more to exert himself in seeking the work that was so hard to get, and so difficult to keep.

"The business the old man now took up, his trade, as he called it, was the making of little toy kitchens, which he hawked about once a week, and sold for the modest sum of twopence each. They were most ingeniously made out of pieces of very thin board, something of the same kind they make hat boxes of. These pieces he bought in large quant.i.ties cheap, and cut to suit his purpose. The floors were made of more solid wood, and the walls were papered with odd sc.r.a.ps of wall paper, sample patterns and such like, which some of his old employers gave him. The old man, with a few bits of wood, and the help of a little rough paint, constructed the rude likeness of a kitchen range, and a dresser, and very tidy little affairs we were for the price.

"'I should like to put a kitchen table,' said old Joe, surveying me with a critical eye, half screwed up; 'it would make it more comferble like, and make both ends match. But I can't do it for the money no how. I'm bound to make a penny at least on each one to pay for my time, so the table must wait till better days.'

"I was a larger and better specimen of Joe's work, for I had been made at a time when the stock had been rather large, and prices low, and so I was generally kept as a sort of show article of what Joe _could_ do when he liked. I had more room than Joe generally measured out to his usual kitchens, and having been originally papered with an especially neat and "becoming" hanging, as Joe said, I had become quite a ruling favourite with the old man. I was now promoted to the place of honour on his tray, not for selling purposes, but for exhibition.

"'That there chap will cost fourpence,' replied Joe to all his little customers when they picked me out; 'leastways one like him. This here, you see, is my adver-_tise_-ment. I couldn't afford to sell one like it for less than fourpence. The walls are so well papered, you see, and the bars of the range is shown, with the flames a rushin through 'em!'

"'I should like a nice ittle kishin,' said a fat, roley-poley little butcher's daughter to her burly father, as he was leisurely wandering outside his shop, admiring and looking over his nice joints of prime meat.

"'Like a what, my duck?' said the jolly butcher, lifting up the rosy little pet.i.tioner, and giving her an airy ride on his shoulder; 'what is it my p.u.s.s.y cat wants to-day of her dad?'

"'A kishin,' said the child, 'a kishin--old man got such lots of kishins!'

"The butcher gazed about him with a calm, placid, satisfied air, like one of his own slain bullocks, when grazing peacefully in their meadows, and then catching sight of Joe in the distance, ran heavily after him with the delighted child. They soon reached the old man, and turned over his wares.

"'There's a booful one, dad,' said the fat child, 'a booful one with a fire lighted! Oh, I like that _so_ much!'

"'I'll bring ye one next week, Miss,' replied old Joe, seeing they were good customers; 'this here ain't for sale, but I'll bring the fellow to ye next week.'

"'I want it now,' pouted the child, peevishly.

"'What's the price of him, master?' asked the butcher. 'Don't be cross, Phoebe, you shall have it.'

"'I can't sell he,' replied the old man, 'but I'll bring you another just like it to-night, and it will be fourpence; I can't sell 'em no lower because of the time and trouble they takes.'

"'I want it now, I want a kishin now,' whined Phoebe, hiding her red, cross face on her father's shoulder.

"'I'll give ye sixpence for that one, old chap,' said her father, positively, 'and if you won't sell it, you may go to Coventry, if you like!'

"'I wouldn't sell that one for a shilling for a reason I have,' said Joe; 'but as little Miss have a set her heart on it so, I'll go back and fetch t'other one now. Will that do, little Missee? And if you are a good girl, and don't cry, and wait with patience till I come back, old Joe will bring you a kitchen table with it into the bargain!'

"Like a sensible child, as she was, Phoebe said she would, and nodding a half reluctant and doubting farewell to the old man, she saw him set off at his best pace on his way home to fetch her the fellow kitchen to myself. And not for any sum of money would old Joe have broken any promise he had made to a child. When he got back to his dark, cold room, he found his one friendly visitor waiting for him, but only begged her to sit down and wait for him a little while so that he could run back to the child with the toy. He was more than rewarded, even in very profitable ways, for not only did the little girl, who had been eagerly watching for him on the steps, rush out clapping her hands for the promised Kitchen, but the good-natured butcher, seeing how the old man must have hurried to keep his word to the little one, gave him a nice bit of steak at the same time with the price of the toy, telling him he was afraid he would miss his dinner, and so, perhaps, that would make up.

"'Thank ye, kindly,' replied the old man, 'but you see I ain't no dinner to lose to speak of, cos I always has a crust of bread and cheese, leastways, unless any kind soul gives me a old bone or some broken wittles!'

"'Well, you can have a cosy broil to-day,' laughed the butcher; ''tis prime meat, and that I'll answer for!'

"Poor old Joe trotted off in high glee with his prize, buying a "happorth" of onions and a "pennorth of all sorts" to flavour his stew with. For old Joe, being a handy and sensible sort of fellow, had in course of time become quite a cook, with the poor sc.r.a.ps his scanty means furnished. Nor was he the only one to benefit by it, for many a tea-cupful of what was proudly called "broth" did Joe spare to one or two starving mothers hard by, for their ailing little ones. But old Joe had a visitor to-day, his long lost wife's blind sister, and so he was proud indeed to make a feast in her honour; and while his little sc.r.a.p of meat was slowly simmering, with the odds and ends of garden-stuff he had bought, Joe made his visitor as comfortable as he could, and gave her his kitchens to "feel," as she could not see.

"'I'm getting quite a hand at making 'em, Liza,' said the old man, cheerily; 'I've got quite a sight of little customers, and I think I shall get on by degrees, you know, werry slow, to make some better-most kinds, and sell the bigger ones at fourpence a-piece! And then I can throw in a kitchen table into the bargain, you know, which will make 'em more completer.'

"Poor blind Liza admired to his heart's content, and felt us all over with her wonderfully sensitive fingers, which almost seemed to find out what sort of paper we were covered with, and she was not without her bit of proud satisfaction, too, for she had brought Joe a pretty little square basket, with a lid to it, which had been the work of her own poor, unguided fingers. She had been placed by a very charitable lady in a blind school, where she had learned basket-work, and she now was able to help her old mother by her work, which was disposed of for her at a shop established for that especial purpose in the Euston Road.

"Joe was mightily delighted with his basket, and said it was what he had been wanting all along to keep his coppers in on his tray of toys. And so, after a merry evening, Joe limped off to see the poor blind woman safe to her home, about three miles distant. This was old Joe's solitary holiday for many a month, for he had no friends and few acquaintances, except the poor women who came thankfully to him now and then for one of his savoury messes for their sick little ones, and they had no time to spare, for they were most of them poor hard-working drudges, who were very grateful for his help, and indeed often brought him their own poor sc.r.a.ps of food to cook for their little invalids, while they earned a few pence by washing, or hawking flowers, or fire papers. And the kind-hearted old man would stir and simmer the scanty sc.r.a.ps in his solitary saucepan, and take a world of care and pains with the "broth"

to make it relishing for the poor sickly little babes. He would often put it into the cracked mug or pie-dish, and carry it himself to the forlorn sufferer, and stay and have a bit of merry chat. There was not a child in the neighbourhood who did not know and love Joe, and few indeed who had not received some small kindness from him. He was only a very poor and infirm old man, and had but little in his power to give or do, but what he could was all done so cheerfully and kindly, that the very sight of his old wrinkled, weather-beaten face seemed like sunshine in the wretched rooms where poverty and want lived so hardly.

"More than one even of his little kitchens had been generously given away by Joe, and though they were really of no value, to him they were the produce of hours of labour and pains, and the means by which he earned his scanty living. Poor little Biddy Doolan, a small child, who had been wasting away many months in a slow decline, was found by her mother (who had gone to the dispensary for some medicine for her), lying back on the heap of straw, cold and lifeless, with the treasured kitchen, the _one_ toy of a long miserable childhood, cuddled fast in the thin stiff arms. Old Joe cried over her like a child, and was more active than ever in his errands among the sick children. He was at last christened "Dr. Joe," by universal consent, and was really often sent for after the regular doctor, and he came as regularly, although he had no fee beyond the thanks of his poor little patients.

"I used always to accompany him in his weekly long journeys, holding the place of honour on the trays, next to Liza's basket, and many a funny scene have we witnessed together. Joe's customers were "legion," for every child that could raise twopence was ready enough to buy one of the kitchens. And as times did get a little better, Joe _was_ able to add the long wished-for wooden table, which gave a great finish and air of reality to his little constructions. His sales rose one third after this, and Joe's spirits went up with them. On Liza's next visit she suggested that he might make a parlour too, she thought, and old Joe, getting quite venturesome, jumped at the idea.

"'I've a cousin in service, Joe,' said Liza, 'she lives nurse at Mrs.

Spenser's, and I'll ask her if she can't save us up a few bits and sc.r.a.ps of print and muslin. I think I could help you a little too, even if 'tis only in a small way.'

"'Thankee sure, Liza,' replied Joe, delighted, 'and now I'll tell ye what, you and mother come up some afternoon, and we'll see what we can do between us all. I'll see ye safe back at night.'

"And blind Liza and her mother did come, and what between Liza's neat and clever fingers, her old mother's sharp eyes, and Joe's own handy work, they had speedily turned out half a dozen little parlours, that Joe fairly hopped round, shouting with delight. The cousin had been very generous and set them up with a tolerable h.o.a.rd of bits and sc.r.a.ps, so that, what with paper and paint and all, they were, as Joe declared, "fit for a queen to live in." The walls were papered with Joe's choicest sc.r.a.ps, and the floor carpeted with a piece of print, while sc.r.a.ps of muslin stood for curtains. Liza had manufactured some square cushions of a suitable size, which did duty for ottomans, and a round piece of card board, glued on a pillar leg, composed of an empty cotton reel painted brown, did duty for a centre table. Then Joe decorated the centre of the back wall with what he considered a splendid likeness of a grand drawing room grate. He looked at his work with great satisfaction, and was never weary of pointing out the best charms of each parlour to the old lady, Liza's mother, who really was a very useful and agreeable helper to the party. She perched her old horn spectacles on the tip of her little nose, and peeped in, suggesting improvements here and there, and she cut out the carpets quite tidily. Their only regret was that Liza could not see them too, but she was so cheerful, and guessed and described what the parlours were like so well, that they declared she must have eyes in the tips of her fingers.

"'Now,' said Joe, as they finished the sixth by the dim light of a halfpenny dip, 'ladies, I'm uncommon obliged to you for your help, which great it is, and well I shall do by it, I don't doubt, but I'm afraid I shan't manage 'em so well for myself arterwards.'

"'O yes, you will Joe,' replied Liza, cheerfully; 'you know you always were a handy man; you can cut the carpets and curtains every bit as well as mother can. And as for the ottomy's, I'll make you a dozen or two when I'm home, and I'll bring 'em to you next week, or what's better still, you can fetch 'em. Don't you think its Joe's turn to return our visit, mother?'