Part 4 (2/2)
”O, Susy said the very last thing before I got to Boston. You'll tell me when it's the very last thing? I'm so glad Susy wrote it! for now I can be 'expecting it all the rest of the way.”
CHAPTER IV.
”PIGEON PIE POSTPONED.”
This is Susy's letter, which lay in Mr. Parlin's pocket-book, and which he gave his impatient little daughter fifteen minutes before the cars stopped:--
”MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER: This is for you to read when you have almost got to Boston; and it is a story, because I know you will be tired.
”Once there was a wolf--I've forgotten what his name was. At the same time there were some men, and they were monks. Monks have their heads shaved. They found this wolf. They didn't see why he wouldn't make as good a monk as anybody. They tied him and then they wanted him to say his prayers, patter, patter, all in Latin.
”He opened his mouth, and then they thought it was coming; but what do you think? All he said was, 'Lamb! lamb!' And he looked where the woods were.
”So they couldn't make a monk of him, because he wanted to eat lambs, and he wouldn't say his prayers.
”Mother read that to me out of a blue book.
”Good by, darling. From ”SISTER SUSY.”
”What do you think of that?” said Mr. Parlin, as he finished reading the letter aloud.
”It is so queer, papa. I don't think those monkeys were very bright.”
”Monks, my child.”
”O, I thought you said monkeys.”
”No, monks are men--Catholics.”
”Well, if they were men, I should think they'd know a wolf couldn't say his prayers. But I s'pose it isn't true.”
”No, indeed. It is a fable, written to show that it is of no use to expect people to do things which they have not the power to do. The wolf could catch lambs, but he could not learn his letters. So my little Alice can dress dollies, but she does not know how to take care of babies.”
”O, papa, I didn't choke him _very_ much.”
”I was only telling you I do not think you at all to blame. Little girls like you are not expected to have judgment like grown women. If you only do the best you know how, it is all that should be required of you.”
Dotty's face emerged from the cloud. She looked away down the aisle at Mrs. Lovejoy, who was patting the uninteresting baby to sleep.
”Well,” thought she, her self-esteem reviving, ”I wish that woman only could know I wasn't to blame! I don't believe _she_ could have take care of that baby when she was six years old.”
”Here we are at Boston,” said Mr. Parlin. ”Is your hat tied on? Keep close to me, and don't be afraid of the crowd.”
Dotty was not in the least afraid. She was not like Prudy, who, on the same journey, had clung tremblingly to her father at every change of cars. In Dotty's case there was more danger of her being reckless than too timid.
They went to a hotel. Mr. Parlin's business would detain him an hour or two, he said; after that he would take his little daughter to walk on the Common; and next morning, bright and early, they would proceed on their journey.
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