Part 15 (1/2)
There were two other children: Peter, thirteen years old; and Joanna, or Joan as she was called, who had just pa.s.sed her eleventh birthday.
They took care of the fowl, and were proud when at the end of the week they could bring to their mother a large basket of eggs to carry to the Fort.
The only one of the family who could afford to do nothing was six-year-old Tilderee, though they thought she did a good deal--that is, all except Joan; for she seemed to make everybody's else burden lighter by her merriness, her droll sayings, and sweet, loving little ways.
Yet she was continually getting into mischief; and to see her trotting to and fro, eager to be of use, but always lending a little hindering hand to everything, one would hardly consider her a help. ”How should I ever get on without the child!” her mother would often exclaim; while at the same moment Tilderee might be dragging at her gown and interfering with her work at every step.
How frequently Mrs. Prentiss laughed, though with tears in her eyes, as she thought of the time when Tilderee, a toddling baby, was nearly drowned by tumbling head-foremost into a pailful of foaming milk, and no one would have known and rushed to save her but for the barking of the little terrier Fudge! Then there was the scar still to be found beneath the soft ringlets upon her white forehead, a reminder of the day when she tried to pull the spotted calf's tail. How frightened ”papa” was at the discovery that his mischievous daughter had been at his ammunition chest, played dolls with the cartridges, and complained that gunpowder did not make as good mud pies as ”common dirt!”
Peter and Joan could add their story, too. Peter might tell, for instance, how Tilderee and Fudge, the companion of most of her pranks, frightened off the shy prairie-dogs he was trying to tame; saying they had no right to come there pretending to be dogs when they were only big red squirrels, which indeed they greatly resembled. Still he was very fond of his little sister. He liked to pet and romp with her, to carry her on his back and caper around like the friskiest of ponies.
When he paused for breath she patted his sun-burned cheek with her dimpled hand, saying, in her cooing voice, ”Good brother Pippin!” which was her nickname for him. Then he forgot that she delighted to tease him,--that her favorite pastime was to chase the young chicks and cause a tremendous flutter in the poultry yard; and how vexed he had been when she let his mustang out of the enclosure, ”because,” she said, ”Twinkling Hoofs needs a bit of fun and a scamper as well as anybody; and he was trying to open the gate with his nose.” It took two days to find the mustang and coax him back again. Tilderee was penitent for fully ten minutes after this escapade; but she endeavored to console herself and Peter by declaring, ”I know, Pippin, that the Indians must have Twinkling Hoofs by this time. And he's so pretty they'll keep him for a chief to ride; a big, fat chief, with a gay blanket and a feather headdress, and red and blue paint on his face. Won't Twinkling Hoofs be s'prised at all that? But never mind, Pippin; papa will let you ride the old grey horse!”
No one knew better than Joan, however, just how tantalizing Tilderee could be,--how she dallied in the morning playing hide-and-seek, refusing to have her face washed and her tangled hair brushed into s.h.i.+ning curls; this, too, when Joan was in the greatest hurry to go and give the fluffy chicks and the grave old fowl their breakfast. It was very well for Peter to say, ”What should we do without Tilderee?” If she bothered him he could take his rifle and go shooting with Abe, the old scout; or jump upon Twinkling Hoofs and gallop all over the ranch.
How would he like the midget to tag after him all day, to have the care of her when mother went to the Fort to sell the b.u.t.ter and eggs?
”Indeed I could get on very well without the little plague,” Joan sometimes grumbled--”just for a _teenty_ bit of a while,” she generally added, hastily; for she really loved her little sister dearly. Joan tried hard to be patient, but she had a quick temper, and occasionally forgot her good resolutions. This happened one day when her mother had gone to dispose of the dairy products. The provocation was certainly great.
Joan had a lovely French doll--the only French doll in the Territory, and probably the most beautiful one to be found within many hundred miles. Mrs. Miller, the wife of one of the officers at the Fort, brought it to her from Chicago; and the little girl regarded it as more precious than all the family possessions combined. What, then, was her consternation this morning to see Fudge dash around the corner of the house dangling the fair Angelina by the blue silk dress, which he held between his teeth, and Tilderee following in wild pursuit! Joan rushed out and rescued her treasure; but, alas! it was in a sadly dilapidated condition. She picked up a stick and started after the dog, but Tilderee interfered.
”Oh, please, dear Joan!” she cried, holding her back by the ap.r.o.n strings. ”Fudge isn't the most to blame. I took Angelina. I s'pose he pulled off the wig and broke the arm, but I pushed the eyes in; didn't mean to, though--was only trying to make them open and shut.
Tilderee's so sorry, Joan!”
The explanation ended with a contrite sob and what Mr. Prentiss called ”a sun shower.” But the sight of the child's tears, instead of appeasing, only irritated Joan the more. Giving her a smart shake, she said excitedly:
”Tilderee Prentiss, you're a naughty, naughty girl! I wish you didn't live here. I wish mother had let you go with the lady at the Fort who wanted to adopt you. I wish I hadn't any little sister at all!”
Tilderee stopped crying, and stood gazing at the angry girl in astonishment; then, swallowing a queer lump that came in her throat, she drew herself up with a baby dignity which would have been funny but for the pathetic expression of her sweet face, as she lisped slowly: ”Very well. P'rhaps some day Tilderee'll go away and never come back again!”
She turned and went into the house, with Fudge at her heels. As he pa.s.sed Joan his tail, which had drooped in shame at his conduct, erected itself defiantly, and he uttered a growl of protest.
Joan remained disconsolately hugging and weeping over the ill-fated Angelina. But, somehow, she did not feel any better for having yielded to her anger. ”Tilderee deserved a good scolding,” she said to herself over and over again. Still there was a weight upon her heart, not caused by the ruin of the doll; for, notwithstanding all the excuses she could muster, her conscience reproached her for those unkind, bitter words. After a while, remembering that she had been cautioned not to let Tilderee out of her sight, she started to look for her. The culprit was soon discovered in the corner of the kitchen cupboard, which she called-her ”cubby-house,” engaged in lecturing Fudge for running away with Angelina.
”Never meddle with what does not belong to you!” she said, laying down the law with her mite of a forefinger; and, to make her words more impressive, giving him an occasional tap on the nose. He listened dutifully, as if he were the sole transgressor; but interrupted the homily now and then by lapping the hand of his little mistress with his tiny red tongue, as a token of the perfect understanding between them.
When they looked up and saw Joan, both glanced at her deprecatingly, but quite ready to a.s.sume a defensive att.i.tude. Ashamed of having allowed her indignation to carry her so far, she was, however, inclined to be conciliatory; and therefore, with an effort, managed to say, as if nothing had happened:
”Come, Tilderee! Watch at the window for father, while I get dinner ready.”
Tilderee at once sprang to her feet gaily, threw her arms around Joan's waist, and held up her rosy mouth for the kiss of mutual forgiveness, Fudge wriggling and wagging his tail.
Joan now busied herself about the mid-day meal, for which her mother had made the princ.i.p.al preparation before setting out. She said nothing about the tragedy of the morning when her father came in, partly because she felt that n.o.body could appreciate the depth of her grief but mother, and because she had made up her mind not to complain of Tilderee,--a conclusion which she secretly felt ent.i.tled her to rank as a heroine. But Tilderee related the occurrence herself as soon as her mother returned.
”Fudge and me broke Joan's beauty doll. We didn't mean to, and we're awful sorry,--honest and true we are!”
”But that will not mend Angelina,” said Mrs. Prentiss, gravely.
Tilderee hung her head. She now realized for the first time, that no matter how grieved we are, we can not always repair the wrong we have done. The mother, though a plain, uneducated woman, had plenty of good sense, and did her best to train her children well. She now talked very seriously to her little daughter, and Tilderee promised to be less meddlesome and more obedient in the future.
”Fudge and me wants to be good,” she said, penitently; ”but we forgets.
P'rhaps if we were other folks, and our names were something else 'sides Tilderee and Fudge, we might be better.”
”I'm afraid Fudge is a hard case,” sighed her mother, restraining a smile; ”and I should not like to see my little girl changed into any one else. But I expect we ought to call you as you were christened, and that is Matilda. It is a saint's name, you know; and you can pray to your name saint to help you.”