An Old-Fashioned Girl

As the girls were going to bed one night, Polly kissed grandma, as usual, and Fanny laughed at her, saying, “What a baby you are! We are too old for such things now.”

“I don’t think people ever are too old to kiss their fathers and mothers,” was the quick answer.

“Right, my little Polly;” and Mr. Shaw stretched out his hand to her with such a kindly look, that Fanny stared surprised, and then said, shyly, “I thought you didn’t care about it, father.”

“I do, my dear.” And Mr. Shaw put out the other hand to Fanny, who gave him a daughterly kiss, quite forgetting everything but the tender feeling that sprung up in her heart at the renewal of the childish custom which we never need outgrow.

Mrs. Shaw was a nervous, fussy invalid, who wanted something every five minutes; so Polly found plenty of small things to do for her, and did them so cheerfully, that the poor lady loved to have the quiet, helpful child near, to wait upon her, read to her, run errands, or hand the seven different shawls which were continually being put on or off.

Grandma, too, was glad to find willing hands and feet to serve her; and Polly passed many happy hours in the quaint rooms, learning all sorts of pretty arts, and listening to pleasant chat, never dreaming how much sunshine she brought to the solitary old lady.

Tom was Polly’s rock ahead for a long time, because he was always breaking out in a new place, and one never knew where to find him. He tormented yet amused her; was kind one day, and a bear the next; at times she fancied he was never going to be bad again, and the next thing she knew he was deep in mischief, and hooted at the idea of repentance and reformation. Polly gave him up as a hard case; but was so in the habit of helping anyone who seemed in trouble, that she was good to him simply because she couldn’t help it.

“What’s the matter? Is your lesson too hard for you?” she asked one evening, as a groan made her look across the table to where Tom sat scowling over a pile of dilapidated books, with his hands in his hair, as if his head was in danger of flying asunder with the tremendous effort he was making.

“Hard! Guess it is. What in thunder do I care about the old Carthaginians? Regulus wasn’t bad; but I’m sick of him!” And Tom dealt “Harkness’s Latin Reader” a thump, which expressed his feelings better than words.

“I like Latin, and used to get on well when I studied it with Jimmy. Perhaps I can help you a little bit,” said Polly, as Tom wiped his hot face and refreshed himself with a peanut.

“You? Pooh! Girls’ Latin don’t amount to much, anyway,” was the grateful reply.

But Polly was used to him now, and, nothing daunted, took a look at the grimy page in the middle of which Tom had stuck. She read it so well, that the young gentleman stopped munching to regard her with respectful astonishment, and when she stopped, he said, suspiciously, “You are a sly one, Polly, to study up so you can show off before me. But it won’t do, ma’am; turn over a dozen pages, and try again.”

Polly obeyed, and did even better than before, saying, as she looked up, with a laugh, “I’ve been through the whole book; so you won’t catch me that way, Tom.”

“I say, how came you to know such a lot?” asked Tom, much impressed.

“I studied with Jimmy, and kept up with him, for father let us be together in all our lessons. It was so nice, and we learned so fast!”

“Tell about Jimmy. He’s your brother, isn’t he?”

“Yes; but he’s dead, you know. I’ll tell about him some other time; you ought to study now, and perhaps I can help you,” said Polly, with a little quiver of the lips.

“Shouldn’t wonder if you could.” And Tom spread the book between them with a grave and businesslike air, for he felt that Polly had got the better of him, and it behooved him to do his best for the honor of his sex. He went at the lesson with a will, and soon floundered out of his difficulties, for Polly gave him a lift here and there, and they went on swimmingly, till they came to some rules to be learned. Polly had forgotten them, so they both committed them to memory – Tom, with hands in his pockets, rocked to and fro, muttering rapidly, while Polly twisted the little curl on her forehead and stared at the wall, gabbling with all her might.

“Done!” cried Tom, presently.

“Done!” echoed Polly; and then they heard each other recite till both were perfect.

“That’s pretty good fun,” said Tom, joyfully, tossing poor Harkness away, and feeling that the pleasant excitement of companionship could lend a charm even to Latin Grammar.

“Now, ma’am, we’ll take a turn at algibbera. I like that as much as I hate Latin.”

Polly accepted the invitation, and soon owned that Tom could beat her here. This fact restored his equanimity; but he didn’t crow over her, far from it; for he helped her with a paternal patience that made her eyes twinkle with suppressed fun, as he soberly explained and illustrated, unconsciously imitating Dominie Deane, till Polly found it difficult to keep from laughing in his face.

“You may have another go at it any time you like,” generously remarked Tom, as he shied the Algebra after the Latin Reader.

“I’ll come every evening, then. I’d like to, for I haven’t studied a bit since I came. You shall try and make me like algebra, and I’ll try and make you like Latin; will you?”

“Oh, I’d like it well enough, if there was anyone to explain it to me. Old Deane puts us through double-quick, and don’t give a fellow time to ask questions when we read.”

“Ask your father; he knows.”

“Don’t believe he does; shouldn’t dare to bother him, if he did.”

“Why not?”

“He’d pull my ears, and call me a ‘stupid,’ or tell me not to worry him.”

“I don’t think he would. He’s very kind to me, and I ask lots of questions.”

“He likes you better than he does me.”

“Now, Tom! It’s wrong of you to say so. Of course he loves you ever so much more than he does me,” cried Polly, reprovingly.

“Why don’t he show it, then?” muttered Tom, with a half-wistful, half-defiant glance toward the library door, which stood ajar.

“You act so, how can he?” asked Polly, after a pause, in which she put Tom’s question to herself, and could find no better reply than the one she gave him.

“Why don’t he give me my velocipede? He said, if I did well at school for a month, I should have it; and I’ve been pegging away like fury for most six weeks, and he don’t do a thing about it. The girls get their duds, because they tease. I won’t do that, anyway; but you don’t catch me studying myself to death, and no pay for it.”

“It is too bad; but you ought to do it because it’s right, and never mind being paid,” began Polly, trying to be moral, but secretly sympathizing heartily with poor Tom.

“Don’t you preach, Polly. If the governor took any notice of me, and cared how I got on, I wouldn’t mind the presents so much; but he don’t care a hang, and never even asked if I did well last declamation day, when I’d gone and learned ‘The Battle of Lake Regillus,’ because he said he liked it.”

“Oh, Tom! Did you say that? It’s splendid! Jim and I used to say Horatius together, and it was such fun. Do speak your piece to me, I do so like ‘Macaulay’s Lays.’”

“It’s dreadful long,” began Tom; but his face brightened, for Polly’s interest soothed his injured feelings, and he was glad to prove his elocutionary powers. He began without much spirit; but soon the martial ring of the lines fired him, and before he knew it, he was on his legs thundering away in grand style, while Polly listened with kindling face and absorbed attention. Tom did declaim well, for he quite forgot himself, and delivered the stirring ballad with an energy that made Polly flush and tingle with admiration and delight, and quite electrified a second listener, who had heard all that went on, and watched the little scene from behind his newspaper.

As Tom paused, breathless, and Polly clapped her hands enthusiastically, the sound was loudly echoed from behind him. Both whirled round, and there was Mr. Shaw, standing in the doorway, applauding with all his might.

Tom looked much abashed, and said not a word; but Polly ran to Mr. Shaw, and danced before him, saying, eagerly, “Wasn’t it splendid? Didn’t he do it well? Mayn’t he have his velocipede now?”

“Capital, Tom; you’ll be an orator yet. Learn another piece like that, and I’ll come and hear you speak it. Are you ready for your velocipede, hey?”

Polly was right; and Tom owned that “the governor” was kind, did like him, and hadn’t entirely forgotten his promise. The boy turned red with pleasure, and picked at the buttons on his jacket, while listening to this unexpected praise; but when he spoke, he looked straight up in his father’s face, while his own shone with pleasure, as he answered, all in one breath, “Thankee, sir. I’ll do it, sir. Guess I am, sir!”

“Very good; then look out for your new horse tomorrow, sir.” And Mr. Shaw stroked the fuzzy red head with a kind hand, feeling a fatherly pleasure in the conviction that there was something in his boy after all.

Tom got his velocipede next day, named it Black Auster, in memory of the horse in “The Battle of Lake Regillus,” and came to grief as soon as he began to ride his new steed.

“Come out and see me go it,” whispered Tom to Polly, after three days’ practice in the street, for he had already learned to ride in the rink.

Polly and Maud willingly went, and watched his struggles with deep interest, till he got an upset, which nearly put an end to his velocipeding forever.

“Hi, there! Auster’s coming!” shouted Tom, as he came rattling down the long, steep street outside the park.

They stepped aside, and he whizzed by, arms and legs going like mad, with the general appearance of a runaway engine. It would have been a triumphant descent, if a big dog had not bounced suddenly through one of the openings, and sent the whole concern helter-skelter into the gutter. Polly laughed as she ran to view the ruin, for Tom lay flat on his back with the velocipede atop of him, while the big dog barked wildly, and his master scolded him for his awkwardness. But when she saw Tom’s face, Polly was frightened, for the color had all gone out of it, his eyes looked strange and dizzy, and drops of blood began to trickle from a great cut on his forehead. The man saw it, too, and had him up in a minute; but he couldn’t stand, and stared about him in a dazed sort of way, as he sat on the curbstone, while Polly held her handkerchief to his forehead, and pathetically begged to know if he was killed.