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Page 22
The boy had certainly some constructive as well as destructive talent.
Upon a sort of impromptu table covered with green cloth he had arranged
all the toys in rough imitation of a town, with its streets and
buildings. The relative proportion of the parts was certainly not good;
but it was not Sam's fault that the doll's house and the German farm,
his own brick buildings, and the Swiss cottages, were all on totally
different scales of size. He had ingeniously put the larger things in
the foreground, keeping the small farm-buildings from the German box at
the far end of the streets, yet after all the perspective was extreme.
The effect of three large horses from the toy stables in front, with
the cows from the small Noah's Ark in the distance, was admirable; but
the big dolls seated in an unroofed building, made with the wooden
bricks on no architectural principle but that of a pound, and taking
tea out of the new china tea-things, looked simply ridiculous.
Dot's eyes, however, saw no defects, and she clapped vehemently.
"Here, ladies and gentlemen," said Sam, waving his hand politely
towards the rocking-chair, "you see the great city of Lisbon, the
capital of Portugal--"
At this display of geographical accuracy Dot fairly cheered, and rocked
herself to and fro in unmitigated enjoyment.
"--as it appeared," continued the showman, "on the morning of November
1st, 1755."
Never having had occasion to apply Mangnall's Questions to the
exigencies of every-day life, this date in no way disturbed Dot's
comfort.
"In this house," Sam proceeded, "a party of Portuguese ladies of rank
may be seen taking tea together."
"_Breakfast_, you mean," said Dot, "you said it was in the morning,
you know."
"Well, they took tea to their breakfast," said Sam. "Don't interrupt
me, Dot. You are the audience, and you mustn't speak. Here you see the
horses of the English ambassador out airing with his groom. There you
see two peasants--no! they are _not_ Noah and his wife, Dot, and
if you go on talking I shall shut up. I say they are peasants
peacefully driving cattle. At this moment a rumbling sound startles
everyone in the city"--here Sam rolled some croquet balls up and down
in a box, but the dolls sat as quiet as before, and Dot alone was
startled,--"this was succeeded by a slight shock"--here he shook the
table, which upset some of the buildings belonging to the German
farm.--"Some houses fell."--Dot began to look anxious.--"This shock was
followed by several others"---"Take care," she begged--"of increasing
magnitude."--"Oh, Sam!" Dot shrieked, jumping up, "you're breaking the
china!"--"The largest buildings shook to their foundations."--"Sam!
Sam! the doll's house is falling," Dot cried, making wild efforts to
save it: but Sam held her back with one arm, while with the other he
began to pull at the boards which formed his table.--"Suddenly the
ground split and opened with a fearful yawn"--Dot's shrieks shamed the
impassive dolls, as Sam jerked out the boards by a dexterous movement,
and doll's house, brick buildings, the farm, the Swiss cottages, and
the whole toy-stock of the nursery sank together in ruins. Quite
unabashed by the evident damage, Sam continued--"and in a moment the
whole magnificent city of Lisbon was swallowed up. Dot! Dot! don't be a
muff! What is the matter? It's splendid fun. Things must be broken some
time, and I'm sure it was exactly like the real thing. Dot! why don't
you speak? Dot! my dear Dot! You don't care, do you? I didn't think
you'd mind it so. It was such a splendid earthquake. Oh! try not to go
on like that!"
But Dot's feelings were far beyond her own control, much more that of
Master Sam, at this moment. She was gasping and choking, and when at
last she found breath it was only to throw herself on her face upon the
floor with bitter and uncontrollable sobbing. It was certainly a mild
punishment that condemned Master Sam to the back nursery for the rest
of the day. It had, however, this additional severity, that during the
afternoon Aunt Penelope was expected to arrive.
AUNT PENELOPE.
Aunt Penelope was one of those dear, good souls who, single themselves,
have, as real or adopted relatives, the interests of a dozen families,
instead of one, at heart. There are few people whose youth has not
owned the influence of at least one such friend. It may be a good
habit, the first interest in some life-loved pursuit or favourite
author, some pretty feminine art, or delicate womanly counsel enforced
by those narratives of real life that are more interesting than any
fiction: it may be only the periodical return of gifts and kindness,
and the store of family histories that no one else can tell; but we all
owe something to such an aunt or uncle--the fairy godmothers of real
life.
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