“Oh dear! why can’t boys play without making such a mess,” sighed Molly, picking up the feathers from the duster with which Boo had been trying to make a “cocky-doo” of the hapless dog. “I’ll wash him right after dinner, and that will keep him out of mischief for a while,” she thought, as the young engineer unsuspiciously proceeded to ornament his already crocky countenance with squash, cranberry sauce, and gravy, till he looked more like a Fiji chief in full war-paint than a Christian boy.“I want two pails of hot water, please, Miss Bat, and the big tub,” said Molly, as the ancient handmaid emptied her fourth cup of tea, for she dined with the family, and enjoyed her own good cooking in its prime.
“What are you going to wash now?”
“Boo—I’m sure he needs it enough;” and Molly could not help laughing as the victim added to his brilliant appearance by smearing the colors all together with a rub of two grimy hands, making a fine “Turner” of himself.
“Now, Maria Louisa Bemis, you ain’t going to cut up no capers with that child! The idea of a hot bath in the middle of the day, and him full of dinner, and croupy into the bargain! Wet a corner of a towel at the kettle-spout and polish him off if you like, but you won’t risk his life in no bath-tubs this cold day.”
Miss Bat’s word was law in some things, so Molly had to submit, and took Boo away, saying, loftily, as she left the room,—
“I shall ask father, and do it to-night, for I will not have my brother look like a pig.”
“My patience! how the Siamese do leave their things round,” she exclaimed, as she surveyed her room after making up the fire and polishing off Boo. “I’ll put things in order, and then mend up my rags, if I can find my thimble. Now, let me see;” and she went to exploring her closet, bureau, and table, finding such disorder everywhere that her courage nearly gave out.
She had clothes enough, but all needed care; even her best dress had two buttons off, and her Sunday hat but one string. Shoes, skirts, books, and toys lay about, and her drawers were a perfect chaos of soiled ruffles, odd gloves, old ribbons, boot lacings, and bits of paper.
“Oh, my heart, what a muddle! Mrs. Minot wouldn’t think much of me if she could see that,” said Molly, recalling how that lady once said she could judge a good deal of a little girl’s character and habits by a peep at her top drawer, and went on, with great success, to guess how each of the school-mates kept her drawer.
“Come, missionary, clear up, and don’t let me find such a glory-hole again, or I’ll report you to the society,” said Molly, tipping the whole drawer-full out upon the bed, and beguiling the tiresome job by keeping up the new play.
Twilight came before it was done, and a great pile of things loomed up on her table, with no visible means of repair,—for Molly’s work-basket was full of nuts, and her thimble down a hole in the shed-floor, where the cats had dropped it in their play.
“I’ll ask Bat for hooks and tape, and papa for some money to buy scissors and things, for I don’t know where mine are. Glad I can’t do any more now! Being neat is such hard work!” and Molly threw herself down on the rug beside the old wooden cradle in which Boo was blissfully rocking, with a cargo of toys aboard.
She watched her time, and as soon as her father had done supper, she hastened to say, before he got to his desk,—
“Please, papa, I want a dollar to get some brass buttons and things to fix Boo’s clothes with. He wore a hole in his new trousers coasting down the Kembles’ steps. And can’t I wash him? He needs it, and Miss Bat won’t let me have a tub.”
“Certainly, child, certainly; do what you like, only don’t keep me. I must be off, or I shall miss Jackson, and he’s the man I want;” and, throwing down two dollars instead of one, Mr. Bemis hurried away, with a vague impression that Boo had swallowed a dozen brass buttons, and Miss Bat had been coasting somewhere in a bath-pan; but catching Jackson was important, so he did not stop to investigate.
Armed with the paternal permission, Molly carried her point, and oh, what a dreadful evening poor Boo spent! First, he was decoyed upstairs an hour too soon, then put in a tub by main force and sternly scrubbed, in spite of shrieks that brought Miss Bat to the locked door to condole with the sufferer, scold the scrubber, and depart, darkly prophesying croup before morning.
“He always howls when he is washed; but I shall do it, since you won’t, and he must get used to it. I will not have people tell me he’s neglected, if I can help it,” cried Molly, working away with tears in her eyes—for it was as hard for her as for Boo; but she meant to be thorough for once in her life, no matter what happened.
When the worst was over, she coaxed him with candy and stories till the long task of combing out the curls was safely done; then, in the clean night-gown with a blue button newly sewed on, she laid him in bed, worn out, but sweet as a rose.
“Now, say your prayers, darling, and go to sleep with the nice red blanket all tucked round so you won’t get cold,” said Molly, rather doubtful of the effect of the wet head.
“No, I won’t! Going to sleep now!” and Boo shut his eyes wearily, feeling that his late trials had not left him in a prayerful mood.
“Then you’ll be a real little heathen, as Mrs. Pecq called you, and I don’t know what I shall do with you,” said Molly, longing to cuddle rather than scold the little fellow, whose soul needed looking after as well as his body.
“No, no; I won’t be a heevin! I don’t want to be frowed to the trockindiles. I will say my prayers! oh, I will!” and, rising in his bed, Boo did so, with the devotion of an infant Samuel, for he remembered the talk when the society was formed.
Molly thought her labors were over for that night, and soon went to bed, tired with her first attempts. But toward morning she was wakened by the hoarse breathing of the boy, and was forced to patter away to Miss Bat’s room, humbly asking for the squills, and confessing that the prophecy had come to pass.
“I knew it! Bring the child to me, and don’t fret. I’ll see to him, and next time you do as I say,” was the consoling welcome she received as the old lady popped up a sleepy but anxious face in a large flannel cap, and shook the bottle with the air of a general who had routed the foe before and meant to do it again.
Leaving her little responsibility in Miss Bat’s arms, Molly retired to wet her pillow with a few remorseful tears, and to fall asleep, wondering if real missionaries ever killed their pupils in the process of conversion.
So the girls all failed in the beginning; but they did not give up, and succeeded better next time, as we shall see.
