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Chapter Seven - Mayday

2/25/2015

IT was May time in the Brambles now, and everything was fresh and green, the woods were shady again, all the shy wild flowers were peeping out from the soft new grass, the brook was foaming over the rocks'—widening in pleasant, mossy shallows, dancing where the sunbeams fell through the Arching trees. Lisbeth loved the brook, and knew its every turn and bend, where the queer "Indian pipes" stood up stiff and pale, where the water cress grew crisp and green, where the white violets starred the mossy banks, bending their pretty heads as if saying their prayers. She knew the hollow under the rock where the big frog lived, the old great grandfather frog, who never hopped and jumped away like the rest but sat still at his door, blinking in the sunshine. She knew where the nest was hidden in the willow, and the tiny birds were beginning t o chirp.

Now that' the days were bright and long, there was plenty of time to ramble out in the woods that, after all, are the biggest and best playgrounds a little girl can have when spring is working sweet wonders in trees and grass and flowers. And Lisbeth was free today — Gran had limbered up her stiff knees with the bottle of medicine and gone up to Top Notch. Gran's heart and thought were always up on Top Notch with her boys. .Why they lived up there instead of at the Brambles Lisbeth did not know. It was a long, steep way for poor Gran to go, for she came back fierce and tired and cross, and cried out in her sleep as i f she was frightened or afraid. But she brought money with her to buy sugar and flour and meal and tea.

Lisbeth was too young and innocent to guess the truth, that the boys were wild, bad men, hiding up on the rough heights of Top Notch so that they could break the laws and make money by wrong, forbidden ways. Only in the dark nights of winter, when the roads were blocked with ice and snow, dared the boys venture home. Now that all the dim ways of the Brambles had opened into light and beauty, they feared to come. And Uncle Lem, the wildest, the dearest, the youngest of Gran's boys, had been sick of late with a fever, and Gran had to go help him, cost what it might. But little Lisbeth knew nothing of all this. Gran was afraid of her childish "prattling ," and so kept the boys' troubles to herself, only taking it out on the poor little girl by being rougher, crosser than ever in her mother's grief and pain.

So it was with a glad, light heart that Lisbeth shut the door of the big black kitchen and felt that she had this whole bright May day free. No water to draw, no fire to make, no floors to scrub, no dinner to cook, there was some cold corn bread and ajar of milk — that would be quite enough for her — above all no Gran to nag and scold and cuff her. A whole long, bright day! "Stay home, Dirck ," she said to the big dog who followed her to the broken gate. "You must stay home and keep house, I 'm going to take my new doll out for a walk. She has never been out in the country before, have you, Endora? I am going t o show her the brook, and the birds' nest, and the frogs. We are going to pick white violets -- oh, we are going to do so many nice things, and then — then we are going to St. Mary's and to church and to Alma's. Oh, I never thought I would have such good things happen to me," murmured Lisbeth as she went skipping along over the rough, weedgrown road. " I never thought I would go to a garden school and a beautiful church; I never thought I would have a lovely, lovely doll, like this, with lace on her skirt and a real hat, and eyes that go to sleep; I never thought a nice little girl like Alma would ask me to play with her; I never thought I would have such happy, happy times as I am having now." And with her heart singing this glad, grateful little song, Lisbeth went skipping on through the dark shadowy woods until the low roof of a little cottage showing under the trees made her suddenly pause. "Oh, Endora, I forgot," she whispered with a quick-drawn breath. " I forgot Bobby Burns. It's Bobby Burns' day." Mrs. Burns was the nearest neighbor to Gran. She lived where the Brambles opened into a soft little glen, that had been, cleared of thorns and briers, and she had a nice garden patch, half a dozen speckled hens, and a cow. She had tow-headed Billy , who tended the cow and brought Gran every day a can of milk. And last but not least, she had Bobby -- kicking, crowing Baby Bobby — just old enough to tumble into, the wash boiler and tip over the milk pans and catch at everything — from pins to scrubbing powder -- his fat hands could reach. There was never the likes of him , "rosy Mrs. Burns groaned one day as she turned from her wash tub to take the drenched, spluttering Bobby from Lisbeth, who had just picked him out of the rain barrel. " I can't turn my back five minutes to hang out my clothes." "Oh, Mrs. Burns," said Lisbeth, who was looking wistfully at the snowy pieces hanging out on her neighbor's line, "I'll come and take care of Bobby every day that you wash, if you'll do up one of my nice dresses every week for me. I can't do them myself." "You poor darling, I don't suppose you can," said the good woman warmly. " And you should have those pretty frocks the Sister gave you ironed right." So the bargain was made.

Bobby's mother laundered Lisbeth's pretty new dresses, and Bobby kicked and tumbled,
safe from harm, under his little nurse's watchful eye for the best part of a bright day every week. And this was Bobby's day. Reluctantly poor little Lisbeth turned to the house, where Mrs. Burns was already up to her elbows in soapsuds, and Lisbeth's blue gingham with its white braid and buttons was being rubbed and rubbed by a skillful hand. "Ah, it's you, Lisbeth — I thought you were not coming," said the good woman. "Your poor old grandmother was bad last night, as Billy said. If she wants you at home today you need not come. I wouldn't be taking you from her when she is crippled up. Bobby and I will get along without you if you're wanted at home." The truth rose to Lisbeth's lips and stopped there — held by the thought that she could escape, could have the long, happy day without work or care. Gran was away at Top Notch; Gran did not want her; no one needed her at home. But — she would not tell; she would just slip away from Bobby—tiresome, teasing, kicking Bobby--to the brook, the woods, for this whole lovely morning—she would not nurse Bobby today. "Run off home with yourself, back to the poor old woman," continued Mrs. Burns. "I know what it is to be down with the rheumatism myself. It's the good little girl you are, I know, and the Lord's blessing will be on you for all your patience with the poor old soul. And there's some nice ginger cookies on the table that you can take with you for your lunch." At these kind words, the truth again leaped to Lisbeth's lips, and again it stopped. She ought to stay; she ought to help Mrs. Burns with naughty Bobby; she ought to pay for the blue gingham the good woman was washing so carefully for her lest it should fade or streak. She would have it ironed this evening, just as if it were new. "Me want Libby," said Bobby, dropping the clothespins that for the moment had kept him quiet. "Me wants the pitty doll, me wants Libby to play wif me." "You can't have her this morning, for she is wanted at home. Run off with yourself before he begins t o screech for ye, Lisbeth dear. Run off — " And Lisbeth ran off at the word, ran off with Bobby's piercing screech already sounding in her ear, for her free, happy day.

The sunbeams were dancing through the arching trees, the birds were singing, gay little squirrels were frisking over the leafy boughs, the pink laurel was in bloom, but when at last Lisbeth reached the soft, mossy banks of the brook and paused to rest, the bright, beautiful world around her seemed to have lost something of its charm. Now, though naughty Bobby's tyrant screech could no longer be heard, another voice seemed whispering to her — whispering clearer than the brook tumbling so joyously at her feet whispering to her heart. "Lisbeth, Lisbeth," it seemed to say, "is our Lord blessing you today, as kind Mrs. Burns said?" "Cheating, shirking little Lisbeth, are you pleasing Him today?" " Lisbeth — Lisbeth — Lisbeth, are you doing right today? Are you good and true today?" "I did not tell a story," said Lisbeth as with Endora in her arms she sat down on a moss-grown rock. "I did not tell Mrs. Burns Gran wanted me at home. I did not say a word, did I , Endora?" Endora stared blankly; a little bird perched on a twig across the brook gave a low tweet, tweet, as it flew away; a hoarse ker-plung came from the grandfather frog. Last summer Lisbeth would have heard nothing more — but now, now her little soul had been wakened, and the voice in her heart kept whispering in spite of bird and breeze. "You did not tell a story, Lisbeth, but were you true to Mrs. Burns— real, real true? Are you a good little girl, as she said? Is our Lord blessing you today as He blessed the little children long ago?"

Lisbeth jumped up from the rock, and 'leaving Endora in her place began to pick violets, the shy little violets that starred the brook's mossy banks. She had taken a big bunch to St. Mary's yesterday. "But they won't show much," she said as she handed them to Sister Angela for the May altar. . "Maybe not, Lisbeth, but our Lord can see, and I think He likes them best, these shy little flowers that do not show; so I am going to put them at His feet." And while the lilacs and the snowballs the other girls had brought from their mothers' gardens stood high and beautiful on the altar vases, Lisbeth's violets filled a low silver bowl before the tabernacle, their white heads bent, their sweet breath rising as if in whispered prayer. At His feet, Sister Angela had said Lisbeth's little wood flowers were, at our Lord's feet. They would be there still when she knelt this afternoon before the altar--
a naughty little Lisbeth who had not been true. ,

Oh, Lisbeth could not stand the chiding voice any longer. "I'm going back," she said, catching up Endora from the rock. "I'm going back to take care of Bobby. I'm going back to
Mrs. Burns and be good and true." And Lisbeth went hurrying on along the brookside; that was the shortest if roughest way, for her slim brown feet were bare today, and she could wade the shallows, skip and jump the rocks as she^ pleased. Bramble brook was a frolicsome little stream that all the gloom and loneliness around it could not tame. Only the icy grip of Jack Frost could hold it silent and still. Now, with the soft spring rains of the last six weeks, with all the drip andtrickle from the rocks and ridges of Top Notch, it was full to the very brim, widening here and there into pools deep and clear, and fringed with the wide leaves of water lilies, that a little later would bloom out white and sweet. Then Lisbeth would have flowers for the altar indeed, flowers that would outshine all the garden blossoms the nicest little girls could bring. But one must skip carefully about the lily ponds.' The banks hidden by the spreading leaves were slippery, the water was deep.

Long ago, Mrs. Burns had told her that when Thornwood was in its glory and pride swans had floated among the lily leaves. Lisbeth started forward eagerly as she caught a glimpse of something white^among them now. Then her heart seemed to jump to her lips and hold her speechless—breathless: For it was Bobby! Bobby in the little white slip in which he took his noonday nap! Bobby, bare-legged and barefooted, runaway baby! Bobby among the lily pads, on these slippery, dangerous banks! And before Lisbeth could reach him — cry to him — there was a swish, a tumble, and Bobby was down and in — flat on his little back in the water, too frightened to struggle or scream.

To be continued . . . . . . .

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Chapter Six - Alma

2/13/2015

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ALMA watched through the iron gate until Lisbeth turned the street corner; then she took her way back to the house, the great, beautiful house where she lived with her father and Madame Manette, her French governess, and Nora and Elise and Tim , and all the other men and maid servants that such a rich and fine establishment as Mr. Oliver Norton's required.

Alma's mother had gone to Heaven when her baby girl was born, and her father, who until then had been young and gay and happy, had grown old and grave with sorrow. His dark hair was threaded with gray; to all but little Alma his face was cold and stern. In his great grief, he had turned away from God and man, living only for his little girl and his work. He was a lawyer whose clear head and keen eye were dreaded by all evildoers far and near, for when he stood against them in the courts of justice there
was no hope.

Little Alma was the idol of this proud, strong man's heart and life. For her the great house, the spacious grounds were kept up in all their beauty; for her the flowers bloomed and the fountain played. For her Madame Manette, who had taught the high Noblesse in her own land, had been brought across the sea. For the little girl with her mother's dancing eyes and golden hair, "Daddy" lived -- to all Heaven and earth beside he was dead in heart and soul, buried in rebellious despair.

So blind was Daddy's love that, if Alma had not been blessed with the sweetest, sunniest disposition in the world, she would have been altogether selfish and spoiled. As it was, she had grown up to eight years old, a roguish, mischievous little sprite, whose pranks good Madame Manette, used to the proper ways of the high Noblesse, found quite beyond her rules.
"And monsieur the father will permit no punishment," the good lady had confided to Sister Angela about two months ago.

Sister Angela had been one of the Madame's pupils, when she was at school in Paris, and was still her fast friend. "This little Alma will not listen, she will not study, she flies away — like the birds and the butterflies — when I would hold her to her lessons, to her desk. Ah, so mechante, so naughty, hiding from me, making the grimaces when I talk to her, laughing up in my face. Never in my country would we permit- such things, ma chere, as you know. We would tie such little girls to the chair, we would lock them up, we would give them no supper. But here I can do nothing — nothing. Monsieur the father will not permit. If she is naughty, if she is lazy, if she is flyaway, like the birds and butterflies, he does not blame, he does not care. "He gives her the kiss, the caress, the new beautiful toys all the same. In his great love, he is blind — ma chere — blind." "Poor father, blind indeed," said Sister Angela softly, for she knew that in the bitterness of his grief for Alma's mother M r . Norton had turned from his Faith, from his Church, from his God. "Little Alma comes to Mass with you every Sunday, as I see," continued the gentle speaker. "It is time for her to do more. Let her make her First Communion in June."

"Ma chere!" the good French lady fairly gasped in dismay. "Alma make her First Communion! She is but eight years old."

"Quite old enough, according to our present rules," said Sister Angela. "None of my class this year are over ten, many only seven."

"Seven!" repeated Madame, "Seven! Never have I had a pupil make her First Communion until she was twelve years old at least, until she knew the Catechism through, until for two years she had the instructions every week. Seven! You terrify me, ma chere. How can a child of seven understand?"

"Oh, my dear Madame, how can the wisest, the oldest of us understand?" said Sister Angela softly. "Our Lord does not ask us to understand, only to believe and to love. In these happy days, the sweet call that once sounded on the hills of Judea is echoing all over the earth: 'Let the little ones come unto Me. Forbid them not.' Let little Alma come with the rest, dear friend." And after a little more gentle pleading, the good Madame yielded reluctantly, for the old-fashioned ideas were strong in her still.

So Alma in her blue hat and ribbons took her place in the First Communion class, that assembled three times a week, and began to learn lessons that in her own beautiful home no governess could teach. With long rows of little girls sitting still and good, Alma sat strangely still and good too. With long rows of little girls knowing their lesson, Alma was ashamed to miss; with these long rows of little girls listening to Father Francis in the chapel, Alma fixed her blue eyes on the kind old speaker, and listened too. And then always there was a little talk with Sister Angela, who was watching with special tenderness over this little lamb, who, unlike poor little Lisbeth, lived amid sunshine and flowers. But lambs can be tangled in flowers as well as thorns, as wise Sister Angela knew.
And so slowly but surely there had come into Alma's dancing eyes a new look — the starry light of thought. It was in her eyes to-day as she walked back to the house, after parting with Lisbeth, poor little Lisbeth, who lived in that dark, gloomy, old house in the Brambles, who had no dear Daddy to love her, no Madame to teach her, no Tim or Nora or Elise to wait on her — poor little Lisbeth! Alma was thinking what she would give Lisbeth to take home to-morrow, when a carriage swung through the iron gates, and Daddy, who had been on a business trip, sprang out and caught his little girl in his arms. For a while all other things were forgotten in the joy of his return, for he had been gone six long weeks. They had dinner together. It was not often that Alma shared Daddy's late dinners, but he said he must have her downstairs to-night, so she sat opposite to him at the round mahogany table with its lights and flowers, and had ice cream made into roses,
and candied nuts. Then they went into the library, where her mother's picture hung over the chimney place, and there were rows of bookcases, and Daddy often sat working or thinking the whole night through. But though letters and papers were piled high upon his big table, he did not even look at them to-night. He flung himself down in his leathern cushioned chair and drew Alma to his knee. The golden head nestled on his shoulder, the fair little face looked up into his own — the only light in poor Daddy's darkness, the only joy in his lonely life — his heart's treasure, his little girl.

"Oh, it's so good to have you back again, Daddy," whispered Alma. "You've been gone so long."

"Only six weeks, Midget!" he answered smiling. "You've missed me then?" "Oh yes, dreadfully, Daddy, and so many things have happened! "

"I'm sure of that," said Daddy with a laugh. "You have made it lively for poor Madame, I know. Have you been very naughty since I left?"

"No," said Alma softly.

"You haven't run away to the frog pond, to fish and tumble in?"

"No," answered Alma again.

"Nor hidden in the cedar hedge at lesson time?"

"Not once, Daddy."

"Nor pitched your school books out of the windows ?" asked Daddy.

"No," answered Alma, " I haven't done anything of these bad things. I've been good, Daddy, real good."

"You have! "exclaimed Daddy, startled by some new tone in the soft voice. "Has Madame been getting a French grip on you since I have been gone ? You've been good, Midget ?"

"Yes," answered Alma. " I go to St. Mary's now every day with the other little girls. And we say our Catechism, and our prayers, and Sister Angela teaches us, and Father Francis tells us all about God and Blessed Mother and how our Lord lived on earth, and loved little children, and wants them to be good so they can come to Him in Heaven."

"Come to Him in Heaven." Daddy's dead heart seemed to leap with living pain at the words. His Alma — his little baby Alma talking like this. For a moment he could not speak. He felt as if the God from whom he had turned was stretching out His hand to claim his little girl, as He had claimed her mother eight years ago.

"Come to Him in Heaven." Oh no, no, no, was the fierce cry that rose from Daddy's breaking heart, though it did not pass his lips. He only drew Alma closer to him and asked almost angrily, "Who sent you to St. Mary's to hear all this — a baby like you?"

"I'm not a baby, Daddy, I am eight years old. All the little girls eight years old make their First Communion now."

"First Communion!" echoed Daddy. "You are to make your First Communion! You don't know what you are talking about, my pet."

"Oh yes, Daddy, I do, I do. Sister Angela, Father Francis told us. We all know what First Communion means. We know that it is our Lord Himself, that He is hidden under the white Host the priest gives us. Father Francis says the oldest and wisest people in the world cannot understand, but He is there. He said so and we must believe Him, because all that He tells us is true. It is the very happiest day of your life, Father Francis says, when our Lord first comes into your heart and makes it like Heaven. Did you ever make your First Communion, Daddy, when you were a little boy?" And Alma uplifted her soft eyes to her father's darkened face, unconscious of the torturing memories she was waking. For even as his little girl asked the question, the long years seemed to roll away, and Daddy saw himself with the white sash on his shoulder, the lighted taper in his hand, heading the First Communion band of twenty years ago — a believing, hoping, loving, true-hearted boy.

But he had lost the faith, the hope, the light of that happy day — lost the love that might have kept him in blessed ways, lost all but the little girl nestling in his arms, in his heart — his Alma, his own. Ah, he would keep her his own, his own, he felt with a pang of fierce, jealous fear, keep her his own bright, dancing little earth fairy. He would not have her an angel as the nuns were making her. Already there was a new look in her eyes, a tone in her voice he had never heard before, an angel look he did not like. "Tut, tut," he said, pinching her cheek. "We must stop these St. Mary's lessons. They are making you too solemn-eyed altogether. I want you to be my own laughing, playing little girl. It will be time enough to think three years from now — you must not begin yet. It's too soon, little girlie, too soon.

"And we're going off in June for a long, long trip together," continued Daddy in a lighter tone; "off in a big ship across the sea — off to be gay and glad the whole summer through."
And then Daddy brought out a big book of pictures, showing the trip they were to take together, the big boat in which they were to sail, the beautiful lands they were to visit, the wonderful sights they were to see. Soon the gentle shadow of thought had vanished from Alma's pretty face, she was laughing and chatting with all the glee of old.

But when she had gone t o her little rose curtained bed that night, Daddy went to Madame's sitting room, his face dark and stern.

"I want these convent lessons stopped at once," he said shortly. "Alma is too young for such teaching as the nuns are giving her — far too young."

"So I myself thought, monsieur," Madame answered nervously, for never had she seen monsieur with this frowning brow — "but the good Sister Angela said — " "What the good Sister Angela says is nothing to me," interrupted monsieur brusquely.

"The child is mine. Keep her from the convent; let me hear no more of a First Communion. It must all be stopped at once. She is far too young — scarcely eight years old. I simply refuse to have a baby like her bewildered by such grave, solemn teachings. She is too young for thought, for prayer, for anything but childish play."

"It is for monsieur to command," said Madame submissively. And so Alma's sweet lessons at St. Mary's were ended.

To be continued . . . . . .

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Mary T. Waggaman
1846-1931
Mary Waggaman was a Catholic author of children's books. From what we can find out she wrote around 45 of them. We have been able to collect quite a few and would like to share them with you. They are wonderful!

Chapter Seven - Mayday

Chapter Six - Alma

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