The Story of Patsy Part 5

To see Carlotty Griggs "being a b.u.t.terfly," with utter intensity of joy and singleness of purpose, was a sight to be remembered. For Carlotty was a pickaninny four years old, and blacker than the Ace of Spades! Her purple calico dress, pink ap.r.o.n, and twenty little woolly braids tied with bits of yellow ribbon made her the most tropical of b.u.t.terflies; and the children, having a strong sense of color and hardly any sense of humor, were always entirely carried away by her antics.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CARLOTTY GRIGGS "BEING A b.u.t.tERFLY."]

Carlotty had huge feet,--indeed, Carlotty "toed in," for that matter; but her face shone with delight; her eyes glistened, and so did her teeth; and when she waved her ebony hands and flitted among the children, she did it as airily as any real b.u.t.terfly that ever danced over a field of clover blossoms.

And if Patsy's joy was great in the play, it was greater still in the work that came afterward. When Helen gave him a scarlet and gold mat to weave, his fingers trembled with eagerness; and the expression of his face caused that impulsive young person to fly to my side and whisper, "Oh, why should one ever 'want to be an angel' when one can be a Kindergartner!"

From this time on, Patsy was the first to come in the morning and the last to leave at night. He took the whole inst.i.tution under his guardianship, and had a watchful eye for everybody and everything belonging to it.

He soon learned the family history of every child in the school, and those family histories, I a.s.sure you, were of an exciting nature; but so great were Patsy's prudence and his idea of the proprieties that he never divulged his knowledge till we were alone. Then his tongue would be loosed, and he would break into his half-childlike, half-ancient and reflective conversation.

He had a stormy temper, which, however, he was fast learning to control, and he was not always kind and gentle with his little playfellows; for he had been raised in a hard school, and the giving and taking of blows was a natural matter, to him the only feasible manner of settling a misunderstanding.

His conduct to me, however, was touching in its devotion and perfect obedience; and from the first hour he was my poor little knight _sans peur et sans reproche_.

Meanwhile, though not perfect, he was greatly changed for the better. We had given him a neat little coat and trousers, his hair was short and smooth, and his great dark eyes shone with unutterable content. He was never joyous; born under a cloud, he had lived in its shadow, and sorrow too early borne had left its indelible impress, to be removed only by that "undisturbed vision of the Father's face, which is joy unutterable;" but for the first time in his life he was at peace.

The d.u.c.h.ess of Anna Street had moved into a house a trifle better suited to her exalted station in life; one where the view was better, and the society worthy of a fish-peddler's family. Accordingly we transferred the Kennetts into Number 32, an honor which they took calmly at first, on account of the odor of fish that pervaded the apartments. The three and four year old Kennetts were now members of our flock, the dull baby was cared for daily by the Infant Shelter, and Mrs. Kennett went out washing; while her spouse upheld the cause of labor by attending sand-lot meetings in the afternoon and marching in the evening.

So, in the rainy winter afternoons, when the other children had gone, Patsy and I stayed together and arranged the next day's occupations.

Slang was being gradually eliminated from his conversation; but it is no small task to correct nine years of bad grammar, and I never succeeded in doing it. Alas! the time was all too short.

It was Patsy who sorted the wools and threaded the needles, and set right the sewing-cards of the babies; and only the initiated can comprehend the labyrinthine maze into which an energetic three-year-old can transform a bit of sewing. It was he who fished the needles from the cracks in the floor, rubbed the blackboards, and scrubbed the slates, talking busily the while.

"Jiminy! (I take that back.) Miss Kate, we can't let Jimmy Buck have no more needles; he sows 'em thick as seed round his chair. Now, now jis'

look yere! Ef that Battles chap hain't scratched the hull top of this table with a buzzer! I'd lam him good ef I was you, I would."

"Do you think our Kindergarten would be the pleasant place it is if I whipped little boys every day?"

"No-o-o! But there is times"--

"Yes, I know, Patsy, but I have never found them."

"Jim's stayin' out nights, this week," said he one day, "'nd I hez to stay along o' Mis' Kennett till nine o'clock."

"Why, I thought Jim always stayed at home in the evening."

"Yes, he allers used ter; but he's busy now lookin' up a girl, don't yer know."

"Looking up a girl! What do you mean, Patsy?"

Patsy scratched his head with the "ten-toothed comb of Nature,"--a habit which prevailed with terrible and suggestive frequency when I first came "into my kingdom,"--and answered:--

"Lookin' up a girl! Why, I s'posed yer knew that. I dunno 'zackly. Jim says all the fellers does. He says he hates to git the feed an' wash the dishes orfly, 'nd girls likes ter do it best of anything."

"Oh!" cried I, light bursting in upon my darkened intellect when dish-washing was mentioned; "he wants to get married!"

"Well, he has ter look up a girl first, don't yer s'pose?"

"Yes, of course; but I don't see how Jim can get money enough to take care of a wife. He only has thirty dollars a month."

"Well, he's goin' ter get a girl what'll 'go halveys,' don't yer know, and pay for her keep. He'd ruther have a 'millingnary' girl--they're the nicest; but if he can't, he's goin' to try for one out of the box factory."

"Oh, Patsy! I wish"--

"Why, didn't I ought ter say that?"

"I wish you had a mother, dear."

"If I had, I'd know more 'n I do now," and a great sigh heaved itself upward from beneath the blue jacket.

"No, you wouldn't know so much, Patsy, or at least you would get the right end first. Never mind, dear boy, you can't understand."

"Jim says Mis' Kennett 'nd I needn't set such store by you, 'cause the fust chance you gits you'll git married." (I always did have an elective antipathy for Jim.) "Shall yer, Miss Kate?"

"Why, dear, I think we are very happy as we are, don't you?"

"Yes, ef I could only stay f'rever, 'nd not go ter the reel school. Jim says I ought ter be gittin' book learnin' pretty soon."

"Did you tell him that Miss Helen was teaching you to read and write a little while every afternoon?"

"Yes, I told him. He liked it fust rate. Mis' Kennett said she'd let her childern stay f'rever with yer, ef they never larned a thing, 'nd so would I, dear, dear Miss Kate! Oh, I bet G.o.d would like to see you in that pretty blue dress!" and he hung over me with a speechless caress; his first, and last indeed, for he was shy and reticent in emotion, and never once showed his affection in the presence of the other children.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PAULINA'S "GOOD-MORNINGS TO JOHNNY Ca.s.s."]

CHAPTER VII.

PATSY FINDS HIS THREE LOST YEARS.

"Now G.o.d be thanked for years enwrought With love which softens yet.

Now G.o.d he thanked for every thought Which is so tender it has caught Earth's guerdon of regret."

Well, Jim did not succeed in finding his girl, although he "looked"

industriously. Either the "millingnaries" did not smile upon him and his slender bank account, or they were not willing to wash the dishes and halve the financial responsibilities besides; but as the winter days slipped by, we could not help seeing that Patsy's pale face grew paler and his soft dark eyes larger and more pathetic. In spite of better care than he had ever had before, he was often kept at home by suffering all too intense for a child to bear. It was almost as if a sixth sense came to him in those days, so full was he of strange thoughts and intuitions.

His eyes followed me wistfully as I pa.s.sed from one child to another, and when my glance fell upon him, his loving gaze seemed always waiting for mine.

When we were alone, as he pored over picture-books, or sat silently by the window, watching the drops chase each other down the pane, his talk was often of heaven and the angels.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HE SAT SILENTLY BY THE WINDOW."]

Daga Ohlsen had left us. Her baby eyes had opened under Norway skies, but her tongue had learned the trick of our language when her father and mother could not speak nor understand a word, and so she became a childish interpreter of manners and customs in general. But we knew that mothers' hearts are the same the world over, and, lacking the power to put our sympathy in words, we sent Daga's last bit of sewing to her mother. Sure enough, no word was needed; the message explained itself; and when we went to take a last look at the dear child, the sc.r.a.p of cardboard lay in the still hand, the needle threaded with yellow wool, the childish knot, soiled and c.u.mbersome, hanging below the pattern just as she had left it. It was her only funeral offering, her only funeral service, and was it not something of a sermon? It told the history of her industry, her sudden call from earthly things, and her mother's tender thought. It chanced to be a symbol, too, as things do chance sometimes, for it was a b.u.t.terfly dropping its coc.o.o.n behind it, and spreading its wings for flight.

Patsy had been our messenger during Daga's illness, and his mind was evidently on that mystery which has puzzled souls since the beginning of time; for no anxious, weary, waiting heart has ever ceased to beat without its pa.s.sionate desire to look into the beyond.