In Wild Rose Time

“Let me untie thim. They must be hurted with the string round so tight.”

Dil cut the cord, and began to unwind it. A great shower fell over Bess, who laughed softly, and uttered exclamations in every key of delight. If Virginia Deering could have witnessed the rapture of these poor things over her despised wild roses!

“O Dil, we never had so many flowers all to once!” she cried in tremulous joy. “There was the daisies from the Mission; but though they’re pritty, you can’t make ’em smell sweet. Do you s’pose it was over in that country you heard tell of where the beautiful lady found them? O Dil, if you could go to the Mission School again! I’d like to know some more, – oh, what will we do with them?”

Dil looked round in dismay.

“I daren’t use the pitcher, and there ain’t nothin’ big enough. They’re wilty, and they just want to be laid out straight in water. But if they’re in anything, and mammy wants it, she’ll just chuck thim away. Oh, dear!” and Dil glanced round in perplexity.

“Mammy promised to buy me another bowl, but she never does,” was Bess’s plaint.

Some one had given them a white earthen wash-bowl long before. The boys had broken it in a “tussle.” They were thrashed, but Bess had not had her loss made good.

“O Bess! would you mind if I ran down to Misses Finnigan’s? She might have something – cheap.”

“No; run quick,” was the eager response.

Dil gave a glance at the babies and was off. Around the corner in a basement was a small store of odds and ends. Mrs. Finnigan was a short, shrewd-looking woman with very red hair, a much turned-up nose, and one squint eye.

Dil studied the shelves as they were passing the time of day.

“What will wan of thim little wash-bowls cost?” she asked hesitatingly. “Bess had wan a lady sent to her, but Owny broke it. I’ve been looking to get her another, but it’s so hard to save up a bit o’ money.”

“Ah, yis; so it is.” Mrs. Finnigan gave the shelf a severe scrutiny. “Thim, is it now? Well, there’s wan ye kin hev’ fer sivin cints, dirt chape at that. It’s got a bit of scale knocked off, and the dust has settled in, but it’ll hould wather ivery blissid time,” and she laughed with a funny twinkle in her squint eye. “Or will ye be wantin’ somethin’ foiner?”

“Oh, no, and I’ve only five cents. If you will trust me a bit” – eagerly.

“Sure I’d trust ye to Christmas an’ the day afther, Dilsey Quinn. If iverybody was as honest, I’d be puttin’ money in the bank where I’m bewailin’ me bad debts now! Take it along wid ye.”

“O Misses Finnigan, if mother should be awful about it, might I just say ye gev it to me? Mother do be moighty queer sometimes, and other whiles she don’t notice.”

“That I will, an’ the blissid Virgin’ll count it no sin. It’s a long head ye’ve got, Dil, an’ its wisdom that gets through the world widout havin’ it broken. It’ll be all right” – with another wink. “An’ here’s a bit of bananny for the poor colleen.”

Dil ran off home with the bowl wrapped up in her apron to prevent incautious gossip. One of the babies was crying, but she hushed it with the end of the banana. It was rather “off,” and the middle had to be amputated, but the baby enjoyed the unwonted luxury.

Then she washed her bowl and filled it with clean water.

“They’ll freshen up, and the buds be comin’ out every day. I’ll set thim on the window-sill, and all night they’ll be sweet to you between whiles, when you can’t sleep. O Bess dear, do you mind the old lady who came in with her trax, I think she called thim, and sung in her trembly voice ’bout everlastin’ spring an’ never with’rin’ flowers? I’ve always wisht I could remember more of it. Never with’rin’ flowers! Think how lovely ’twould be!”

“An’ – heaven! That’s what it is, Dil. I wisht some one else could know. O Dil, think of flowers always stayin’ fresh an’ sweet!”

Dil snipped off the faded leaves, and gave them a fresh water bath. One branch had seven buds and five roses. The delight that stirred these starved souls was quite indescribable. Never had they possessed such a wealth of pleasure.

Now and then Dil had to leave off and comfort the fractious babies. They were getting tired, and wanted their own mothers. But for the poor little girl playing at motherhood there was no one to come in and infold her in restful arms, and comfort her when the long, warm day ended.

At last she had the bowl filled with flowers, a great mound of delicious pink and tenderest green. Bess and Dilsey knew little about artistic methods; but the sight was a joy that the finest knowledge could not have described – that full, wordless satisfaction.

A passionate pulsation throbbed in Bess’s throat as if it would strangle her.

“Now,” said Dil, “I’m going to set thim in your room. I’ll push you in there, and you can make believe you are in a truly garden. For whin the folks come in, they’ll be beggin’ thim, an’ they’ll give thim to the babies to tear up. I couldn’t abear to have thim hurted. An’ babies don’t care!”

“They can go out every day and see things.” Bess clasped her arms about Dil’s neck, and kissed her fervently.

The room was very, very small. Dil’s cot stood along the wall; and there were two or three grocery boxes piled up to make a sort of closet, with a faded curtain across it. There was just room to push in the carriage by the window. It was Bess’s sofa by day and bed by night. The bowl was placed on the window-sill. Now and then a breath of air found its way in.

Mrs. Finn and Mrs. Brady came in for their babies. Dil stirred the fire and put on the kettle, then washed the potatoes and set them to cook. Now and then she ran in to smile at Bess.

“It’s just like heaven!” cried the little wraith.

Alas, if this was a foretaste of heaven! This close, fetid air, and the wet clothes, for they were put up at all hours. Pure air was one of the luxuries Barker’s Court could not indulge in, though we talk of it being God’s gift to rich and poor alike.

When the two rough, begrimed boys rushed in there was only Jamsie left; and he was in an uneasy sleep, with his thumb in his mouth, so Dil held up her hand to entreat silence. The boys lived so generally in the street, and did so much shrewd foraging, that they looked well and hearty, if they had the air of prospective toughs.

“I’ve put the last bit of bread in the milk for Bess’s supper, and you must wait until mother comes,” said Dil, with her small air of authority.

The boys grumbled. Little Dan was quick to follow Owen’s lead, who said roughly, —

“O yes, de kid must have everything! An’ she’ll never be good fer nothin’ wid dem legs. No use tryin’ to fatten her up wid de luxuries o’ life!” and the boy’s swagger would have done credit to his father.

“She’s no good,” put in Dan; “’n’ I’m norful hungry.”

The tears came to Dil’s eyes, though she was quite used to hearing such remarks on the little sister she loved better than her own life. Everybody seemed to consider her such a useless burthen.

“Ain’t them praties done? I could jes’ eat ’em raw,” whined Dan.

“Shet yer mug, er I’ll gev ye a swipe,” said Owen. “Ye don’t look’s if ye wos goin’ to faint this minnit.”

“You jes’ mind yer own biz, Owen Quinn;” and the little fellow swelled up with an air.

Owen made a dive, but Dan was like an eel. They were on the verge of a scrimmage when their mother entered. A tall, brawny woman, with an abundance of black hair, blue eyes, and a color that, in her girlhood, had made her the belle of her native hamlet, less than twenty years ago. A hard, weather-beaten look had settled in the lines of her face, her cheeks had an unwholesome redness, her skin had the sodden aspect that hot steam brings about, and her eyes were a little bleared by her frequent potations. Her voice was loud, and carried a covert threat in it. She cuffed the boys, produced a loaf of bread, and some roast beef bones Mrs. Collins had given her.

“It just needs a stir in the kettle, Dil, for it’s gone a bit sour; but it’ll freshen up with salt an’ some onion. How many babies?”

“Five,” answered Dil.

Just then Mrs. Gillen came flying up the stairs. She was not much beyond twenty, and still comely with youth and health and hope.

“O me darlint!” snatching up her baby with rapture, “did he want his own mammy, sure?” laughing gleefully between the kisses. “Has he fretted any, Dil?”

“He’s been very good.” Dil was too wise to tell bad tales.

“He always is, the darlint! An’ I’m late. I was ironin’ away for dear life, whin Mrs. Welford comes down wid a lasht summer’s gown, an’ sez she, ‘Mrs. Gillen, you stop an’ iron it, an’ I’ll give ye a quarther, for ye’ve had a big day’s work,’ sez she. So what cud I do, faix, when she shpoke so cliver loike, an’ the money ready to hand?”

“They’re not often so free wid their tin, though heaven knows they’re free enough wid their work,” commented Mrs. Quinn, with a touch of contempt.

“Mrs. Welford is a rale lady, ivery inch of her. Jamsie grumbles that I go to her, but a bit o’ tin comes in moighty handy. An’ many’s the cast-offs I do be getten, an’ it all helps. Here’s five cints, and here’s a nickel for yourself, Dil. Whatever in the world should we be doin’ widout ye?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” and Dil courtesied.