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Page 10
"But you want something without any risks, you know," said Margery
sagely. "You would have to buy ground for the silkworms, and set out
the mulberries, and then a swarm of horrid insects might happen along
and devour the plants before the worms began spinning."
"'Competition is the life of trade,'" said Polly. "No, that is n't
what I mean--'Nothing venture, nothing have,' that's it. Then how
would hens do? Ever so many women raise hens."
"Hens have diseases, and they never lay very well when you have to sell
the eggs. By the way, Clarence Jones, who sings in the choir,--you
know, the man with the pink cheeks and corn-silk hair,--advertises in
the 'Daily Press' for a 'live partner.' Now, there 's a chance on an
established hen-ranch, if he does n't demand capital or experience."
"It's a better chance for Miss Ferguson. But she does n't like Mr.
Jones, because when he comes to call, his coat-pockets are always
bulging with brown paper packages of a hen-food that he has just
invented. The other day, when he came to see her, she was out, and he
handed me his card. It had a picture and advertisement of 'The Royal
Dish-faced Berkshire Pig' on it; and I 'm sure, by her expression when
she saw it, that she will never be his 'live partner.' No, I don't
think I 'll have an out-of-door occupation, it's so trying to the
complexion. Now, how about millinery? I could be an apprentice, and
gradually rise until I imported everything direct from Paris."
"But, Polly," objected Margery, "you know you never could tie a bow, or
even put a ribbon on your sailor hat."
"But I could learn. Do you suppose all the milliners were called to
their work by a consciousness of genius? Perish the thought! If that
were true, there wouldn't be so many hideous hats in the shop windows.
However, I don't pine for millinery; it's always a struggle for me to
wear a hat myself."
"You 've done beautifully the last year or two, dear, and you 've
reaped the reward of virtue, for you 've scarcely a freckle left."
"Oh, that isn't hats," rejoined Polly, "that's the law of compensation.
When I was younger, and did n't take the boarders so much to heart, I
had freckles given to me for a cross; but the moment I grew old enough
to see the boarders in their true light and note their effect on mamma,
the freckles disappeared. Now, here 's an idea. I might make a
complexion lotion for a living. Let me see what I 've been advised by
elderly ladies to use in past years: ammonia, lemon-juice, cucumbers,
morning dew, milk, pork rinds, kerosene, and a few other household
remedies. Of course I 'm not sure which did the work, but why could
n't I mix them all in equal parts,--if they would mix, you know, and
let those stay out that would n't,--and call it the 'Olivera Complexion
Lotion'? The trade-mark might be a cucumber, a lemon, and a morning
dew-drop, _rampant_, and a frightened little brown spot _couchant_.
Then on the neat label pasted on the bottles above the trade-mark there
might be a picture of a spotted girl,--that's Miss Oliver before using
her lotion,--and a copy of my last photograph,--that's Miss Oliver
radiant in beauty after using her lotion."
Margery laughed, as she generally did at Polly's nonsense.
"That sounds very attractive, but if you are anxious for an elegant and
dignified occupation which shall restore your mother to her ancestral
position, it certainly has its defects."
"I know everything has its defects, everything except one, and I won't
believe that has a single weak point."
"Oh, Polly, you deceiver! You have a secret leaning toward some
particular thing, after all!"
"Yes; though I have n't talked it over fully yet, even with mamma, lest
she should think it one of my wild schemes; but, Margery, I want with
all my heart to be a kindergartner like Miss Mary Denison. There would
be no sting to me in earning my living, if only I could do it by
working among poor, ragged, little children, as she does. I run in and
stay half an hour with her whenever I can, and help the babies with
their sewing or weaving, and I always study and work better myself
afterward,--I don't know whether it's the children, or Miss Denison, or
the place, or all three. And the other day, when I was excused from my
examinations, I stayed the whole morning in the kindergarten. When it
was time for the games, and they were all on the circle, they began
with a quiet play they call 'Silent Greeting,' and oh, Margery, they
chose me to come in, of their own accord! When I walked into the
circle to greet that smallest Walker baby my heart beat like a
trip-hammer, I was so afraid I should do something wrong, and they
would never ask me in again. Then we played 'The Hen and Chickens,'
and afterward something about the birds in the greenwood; and one of
the make-believe birds flew to me (I was a tree, you know, a whispering
elm-tree), and built its nest in my branches, and then I smoothed its
feathers and sang to it as the others had done, and it was like heaven!
After the play was over, we modeled clay birds; and just as we were
making the tables tidy, Professor Hohlweg came in and asked Miss
Denison to come into the large hall to play for the marching, as the
music-teacher was absent. Then what did Miss Denison do but turn to me
and say, 'Miss Oliver, you get on so nicely with the children, would
you mind telling them some little story for me? I shall be gone only
ten or fifteen minutes.' Oh, Margery, it was awful! I was more
frightened than when I was asked to come into the circle; but the
children clapped their hands and cried, 'Yes, yes, tell us a story!' I
could only think of 'The Hen that Hatched Ducks,' but I sat down and
began, and, as I talked, I took my clay bird and molded it into a hen,
so that they would look at me whether they listened or not. Of course,
one of the big seven-year-old boys began to whisper and be restless,
but I handed him a large lump of clay and asked him to make a nest and
some eggs for my hen, and that soon absorbed his attention. They
listened so nicely,--you can hardly believe how nicely they listened!
When I finished I looked at the clock. It had been nine minutes, and I
could n't think what to do the other dreadful minutes till Miss Denison
should come back. At last my eye fell on the blackboard, and that gave
me an idea. I drew a hen's beak and then a duck's, a hen's foot and
then a duck's, to show them the difference. Just then Miss Denison
came in softly, and I confess I was bursting with pride and delight.
There was the blackboard with the sketches, not very good ones, it is
true, the clay hen and nest and eggs, and all the children sitting
quietly in their wee red chairs. And Miss Denison said, 'How charming
of you to carry out the idea of the morning so nicely! My dear little
girl, you were made for this sort of thing, did you know it?'"
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