More Mittens with The Doll's Wedding and Other Stories Part 6

"Have you money enough to buy my penknife? I have been a pretty good boy, except sometimes, when I was cross--sometimes, last night, when I wanted two pieces of cake; but I don't mean to be cross again, not that I know of--may be. I hope you will bring my penknife. I think that is long enough--of course it is.

Good-by, my dear mamma. I hope you will come back soon, and bring my penknife the same day. Bring it in your pocket, shut up, with a paper round it, and tied, and I am your affectionate son, "PETER."

"Shall I write a postscript?" said Alice.

"What's a postscript?" said Peter, with his head on one side.

"It is some thing very particular indeed, which ladies always put in after the letter is finished."

"Oh, yes!" cried Peter, "I'm the boy for a postscript--certainly, of course!"

"Well," said Alice, holding her pen over the paper.

"Well," repeated Peter, "Postscript, put _that_! Got that down?"

"Yes, all written beautifully!" answered Alice.

"Dear mamma, please _pertikerlary_ to bring me a penknife and--" oh, Alice, "a pair of skates and a penknife!" and then the wonderful letter was finished and sent the next morning; and let me tell you, Peter's mother laughed over and enjoyed this letter more than she would have done the finest complimentary epistle from the President of the United States.

You may be sure that Peter got the penknife and his skates, too. With the first, like boys in general, he cut himself about once a day; but he did not care a b.u.t.ton for that, but just had his finger tied up by one of his kind sisters, and marched off, without even making a wry face, with his precious knife in his pocket. The skates came, too; but, as there had been no ice as yet, Peter had only tried them on dry ground, which Alice told him was far the best and safest style of skating, and repeated, for his edification, Mother Goose's solemn poem of--

"Three children sliding on the ice-- All, on a summer's day-- The ice was thin; they all fell in; The rest, they ran away.

Now, had these children been at home, Or sliding on dry ground, Ten thousand pounds to one penny They had not all been drowned."

All of which was heathen Greek to Peter, or, as he called it, "Stuff!"

One day, soon after her return, Peter's mother took him with her to visit an excellent lady of her acquaintance, who lived near by. They found her sitting in the parlor, with her eldest son and daughter, looking over a new and beautiful book, called Melodies for Childhood.

Soon after they were seated the lady said, "Something very amusing happened up-stairs just now. I have a friend here spending the day, who brought her little baby of four months with her. My little girl is just the same age. Of course my friend's baby must have her nap, and I gave her my little one's cradle to sleep in. But my baby was so very much put out at this that she could not sleep at all; and little Harry, who, as you know, is not quite three years old, was so grieved at what he supposed was the wickedness of the other baby, in taking away his sister's property, that he marched up to the cradle--his little breast heaving, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng, and his hand raised, while, with high, indignant voice, he asked, "_Mamma, sall I_ SAPP _her?_" and I had to run to save the little innocent from the impending blow."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Mamma, sall I SAPP her?"]

Peter listened to all this with very large eyes and all the ears he had, which were only two, and quite small; and when Harry came into the room, a moment after, he rushed up to him, in a prodigious hurry, and cried, "Harry, did you slap her? I would! Let's both go up-stairs and do it now. Give it to her like sixty, for sleeping in your sister's bed!" This proposal so delighted Harry that, in turning round suddenly to go out, he fell over a chair and b.u.mped his nose. Fortunately, this accident kept both the children in the room, and the slapping of the baby had to be postponed.

In the winter time, on the island, the ladies hold sewing meetings, and sew for the poor; and many a warm garment and nice hood is made, and given away to those who otherwise would suffer from the bitter cold.

The pleasantest of these meetings, every one said, was at "Clear Comfort." They, all seemed to feel and acknowledge the sweet spell of the place; and then, Minnie made such wonderful cakes, and the hot biscuit were so light and feathery, that it certainly was the very clearest comfort and enjoyment to eat them, and an inducement to sew ever so much faster afterwards.

It was at one of these delightful meetings that I first met Peter, sitting in front of the splendid wood fire in his own little arm-chair, with his kitten in his lap and a demure twinkle in his blue eye, but not in the least abashed at being the only gentleman in the party.

It was perfectly surprising how many kisses were bestowed upon Peter, and how like a matter of course he took them, and how like a real little gentleman he answered all the questions the ladies asked him; which so delighted a very short, brown lady that she wanted to give him a houseful of books and toys; but, not being quite able to afford that, she sent him on last Christmas eve some stories she had written many years before, accompanied by this string of rhymes, each verse of which must be read in _one_ breath; and, as taking long breaths is beneficial to the lungs, I may as well say that this is about all the merit they have. Here it is. Peter calls it his "Pottery" letter:--

I.

My dear little Pet- Er, so very neat, With such tiny feet As can't well be beat; And dressed up so sweet That it's quite a treat To walk up the street, And take a cool seat Away from the heat, On purpose to meet And kindly to greet (Almost wis.h.i.+ng to eat) This dear little Pete, Who lives in the mansion Called "Comfort Complete."

II.

And now only look!

I send you this book By Dinah, the cook, Who is black as a rook; And she's _undertook_, By hook or by crook, Or by crook or by hook, To take you this book; And she shall be _shook_ If she says she's _mistook_, And to the wrong Peter Has given this book.

III.

I do not affect To be quite correct, But I've _tried_ to collect These stories direct; Which you may reject, If the least disrespect, Or the smallest neglect, Or word incorrect On the subjects elect You can ever detect.

And please recollect, That you may suspect That I wish to protect, And keep quite select, My stories for children I love and respect.

IV.

Then, what will you do?

Why, you'll tie up one shoe; Then another--that's two You'd begun to undo; For all the world knew You were sleepy "a few."

And looking askew At the cat, who said "Mew!"

Meaning "Good-night," to you.

You'll wake up anew, And say, "Mamma, who Sent this book on view?

Have you the least clue?

I'm afraid she's a shrew, As the color is blue.

The stories are true, I supposes; don't you?"

V.

Then she'll say, "My dear, 'Tis Aunt f.a.n.n.y, I hear.

She's nothing to scare, For she's little and spare: She's not very fair, And as high as a chair."

Then you'll put on an air-- For in this affair You have a great share-- And say, "I don't care If she's _not_ very fair, And so little and spare, Or as cross as a bear: I protest and declare I like her, now--there!"

VI.

And now, Peter, attend!

To me your ear lend.

Your little head bend, My dear little friend!

And never pretend You don't comprehend; But just condescend, For a very good end, That face to unbend, Those fingers extend; And, smiling, commend And, frowning, defend This book that I send.

Say, "Sir, your opinion You're asked to suspend."

VII.

Then I'll say, "Where'er You go, and, whene'er At 'Clear Comfort,' whate'er You do, and howe'er, The writer will ne'er From her inmost heart tear Little Peter; but wear A sweet souvenir there Of her little friend dear, Which no one shall share As long as she's here."

This "Pottery" pleased Peter very much, and he kept his sisters busy reading the stories in the little book to him.

As Peter is only six years old at present, I cannot possibly tell you the whole of his history; but I will keep my eye upon him all this coming year, and next Christmas, if you like, I will make another story about his funny doings and sayings; or, if you prefer, you can make his acquaintance, personally, in that charming place called _Clear Comfort_.

THE STORY TOLD TO WILLIE.

"Oh, dear mamma!" said Willie, one pleasant summer's afternoon, "do, please, tell me a story--ah, d-o!" and the little fellow put up his rosy mouth and kissed his mother; well knowing that she could not resist his entreaty, backed by so sweet a bribe. What mother can?

"Oh, you little rogue!" answered his mother, returning the caress, "I have told you every story I can recollect, at least twenty times each.

Why not run out in the garden with your nice new ball, lying there on the floor, and see how high you can throw it up in the air? You must take more exercise in the open air, my dear little Willie. Let us make a bargain. If you will play half an hour, and come in with a pair of rosy cheeks, I will try to have a story ready for you--a _new_ story."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Shake a Paw on it."]