CHAPTER II

IN WHITE FROCK AND SASH

In the drawing-room, in full war-paint of white frock and big sash, he was the spirit of innocent and friendly hospitality, in the nursery he was a brilliant entertainment, below stairs he was the admiration and delight of the domestics. The sweet temper which prompted him to endeavor to sustain agreeable conversation with the guest who admired him led him, also, to enter into friendly converse with the casual market-man at the back door, and to entertain with lively anecdote and sparkling repartee the extremely stout colored cook in the kitchen. He endeavored to assist her in the performance of her more arduous culinary duties, and by his sympathy and interest sustained her in many trying moments. When he was visiting her department chuckles and giggles might be heard issuing from the kitchen when the door was opened. Those who heard them always knew that they were excited by the moral or social observations or affectionate advice and solace of the young but distinguished guest.

“Me an’ Carrie made that pudding,” he would kindly explain, at dinner. “It’s a very good pudding. Carrie’s such a nice cook. She lets me help her.”

And his dimples would express such felicity, and his eyes beam from under his tumbling love-locks with such pleasure, at his confidence in the inevitable rapture of his parents at the announcement of his active usefulness, that no one possessed sufficient strength of mind to correct the grammatical structure of his remarks.

There is a picture—not one of Mr. Birch’s—which I think will always remain with me. It is ten years since I saw it, but I see it still. It is the quaint one of a good-looking, stout, colored woman climbing slowly up a back staircase with a sturdy little fellow on her back, his legs astride her spacious waist, his arms clasped round her neck, his lovely mop of yellow hair tumbling over her shoulder, upon which his cheek affectionately and comfortably rests.

It does not come within the province of cooks to toil up-stairs with little boys on their backs, especially when the little boys have stout little legs of their own, and are old enough to wear Jersey suits and warlike scarfs of red, but in this case the carrying up-stairs was an agreeable ceremony, partly jocular and wholly affectionate, engaged in by two confidants, and the bearer enjoyed it as much as did her luxurious burden.

“We’re friends, you know,” he used to say. “Carrie’s my friend, and Dan’s my friend. Carrie’s such a kind cook, and Dan’s such a nice waiter.”

That was the whole situation in a nutshell. They were his friends, and they formed together a mutual admiration society.

His conversation with them we knew was enriched by gems of valuable and entertaining information. Among his charms was his desire to acquire information, and the amiable readiness with which he imparted it to his acquaintances. We gathered that while assisting in the making of pudding he was lavish in the bestowal of useful knowledge. Intimate association and converse with him had revealed to his mamma that there was no historical, geographical, or scientific fact which might not be impressed upon him in story form, and fill him with rapture. Monsoons and typhoons, and the crossing of the Great Desert on camels, he found absorbing; the adventures of Romulus and Remus, and their good wolf, and the founding of Rome, held him spellbound. He found the vestal virgins and their task of keeping up the sacred fires in the temple sufficiently interesting to be made into a species of dramatic entertainment during his third year. It was his habit to creep out of his crib very early in the morning, and entertain himself agreeably in the nursery until other people got up. One morning his mamma, lying in her room, which opened into the nursery, heard a suspicious sound of unlawful poking at the fire.

“Vivvie,” she said, “is that you?”

The poking ceased, but there was no reply. Silence reigned for a few moments, and then the sound was heard again.

“Vivian,” said his anxious parent, “you are not allowed to touch the fire.”

Small, soft feet came pattering hurriedly into the room; round the footboard of the bed a ruffled head and seriously expostulatory little countenance appeared.

“Don’t you know,” he said, with an air of lenient remonstrance, “don’t you _know_ I’s a westal wirgin?”

It would be impossible to explain him without relating anecdotes. Is there not an illustration of the politeness of his demeanor and the grace of his infant manners in the reply renowned in his history, made at the age of four, when his mamma was endeavoring to explain some interesting point in connection with the structure of his small, plump body? It was his habit to ask so many searching questions that it was necessary for his immediate relatives to endeavor to render their minds compact masses of valuable facts. But on this occasion his inquiries had led him into such unknown depths as were beyond him for the moment—only for the moment, of course. He listened to the statement made, his usual engaging expression of delighted interest gradually becoming tinged with polite doubtfulness. When the effort at explanation was at an end he laid his hand upon his mamma’s knee with apologetic but firm gentleness.

“Well, you see,” he said, “of course you know I _believe_ you, dearest” (the most considerate stress was laid upon the “believe”), “but, _ascuse_ me,” with infinite delicacy, “_ascuse_ me, I do _not_ think it is true.”

The tender premonitory assurance that his confidence was unimpaired, even though he was staggered by the statement made, was so affectionately characteristic of him, and the apologetic grace of the “ascuse me, dearest,” was all his own.

There might be little boys who were oblivious of, and indifferent to, the attractions of simoons, who saw no charm in the interior arrangements of camels, and were indifferent to the strata of the earth, but in his enterprising mind such subjects wakened the liveliest interest, and a little habit he had, of suddenly startling his family by revealing to them the wealth of his store of knowledge, by making casual remarks, was at once instructive and enlivening.

“A camel has ever so many stomachs,” he might sweetly announce, while sitting in his high chair and devoting himself to his breakfast, the statement appearing to evolve itself from dreamy reflection. “It fills them with water. Then it goes across the desert and carries things. Then it isn’t thirsty.”

He was extremely pleased with the camel, and was most exhaustive in his explanations of him. It was not unlikely that Carrie and Dan might have passed a strict examination on the subject of incidents connected with the crossing of the Great Desert. He also found his bones interesting, and was most searching in his inquiries as to the circulation of his blood. But he had been charmed with his bones from his first extremely early acquaintance with them, as witness an incident of his third year, which is among the most cherished by his family of their recollections of him.

He sat upon his mamma’s knee before the nursery fire, a small, round, delightful thing, asking questions. He had opened up the subject of his bones by discovering that his short, plump arm seemed built upon something solid, which he felt at once necessary to investigate.

“It is a little bone,” his mamma said, “and there is one in your other arm, and one in each of your legs. Do you know,” giving him a caressing little shake, “if I could see under all the fat on your little body I should find a tiny, weenty skeleton?”

He looked up enraptured. His dimples had a power of expressing delight never equalled by any other baby’s dimples. His eyes and his very curls themselves seemed somehow to have something to do with it.

“If you did,” he said, “if you did, _would you give it to me to play with_?”

He was a very fortunate small person in the fact that nature had been extremely good to him in the matter of combining his mental sweetness and quaintness with the great charm of physical picturesqueness. All his little attitudes and movements were picturesque. When he stood before one to listen he fell unconsciously into some quaint attitude; when he talked he became ingenuously dramatic; when he sat down to converse he mentally made a droll or delightful and graceful little picture of himself. His childish body was as expressive as his glowing little face. Any memory of him is always accompanied by a distinct recollection of the expression of his face, and some queer or pretty position which seemed to be part of his mental attitude. When he wore frocks his habit of standing with his hands clasped behind his back in the region of a big sash, and his trick of sitting down with a hand upon each of the plump knees a brevity of skirt disclosed, were things to be remembered; when he was inserted into Jersey suits and velvet doublet and knickerbockers, his manly little fashion of standing hands upon hips, and sitting in delicious, all unconsciously æsthetic, poses were positively features of his character. What no dancing-master could have taught him, his graceful childish body fell into with entire naturalness, merely because he was a picturesque small person in both body and mind.

Could one ever forget him as he appeared one day at the seaside, when coming up from the beach with his brief trousers rolled up to his stalwart little thighs? He stood upon the piazza, spade and bucket in hand, looking with deep, sympathetic interest at a male visitor who was on the point of leaving the house. This visitor was a man who had recently lost his wife suddenly. He was a near relative of a guest in the house, and the young friend of all the world had possibly heard his bereavement discussed. But at six years old it is not the custom of small boys to concern themselves about such events. It seems that this one did, however, though the caller was not one of his intimates. He stood apart for a few moments, looking at him with a tenderly reflective countenance. His mamma, seeing his absorption, privately wondered what he was thinking of. But presently he transferred both spade and bucket to one hand, and came forward, holding out the other. I do not think anything could have been quainter and more sweet than the kind little face which uplifted itself to the parting guest.

“Mr. Wenham,” he said, “I’m _very_ sorry for you, Mr. Wenham, about your wife being dead. I’m very sorry for you. I know how you must miss her.”

Even the sympathy of six years old does not go for nothing. There was a slight moisture in Mr. Wenham’s eyes as he shook the small, sandy hand, and his voice was not quite steady as he answered, “Thank you, Vivvie, thank you.”

It was when he was spending the summer at this place that he made the acquaintance of the young lady whose pony he regarded as a model of equine strength and beauty. It was the tiniest possible pony, whose duty it was to draw a small phaeton containing a small girl and her governess. But I was told it was a fine sight to behold the blooming little gentleman caller standing before this stately equipage, his hands on his hips, his head upon one side, regarding the steed with quite the experienced air of an aged jockey.

“That’s a fine horse,” he said. “You see, it’s got plenty of muscle. What I like is a horse with plenty of muscle.”

[Illustration: “I’M VERY SORRY FOR YOU, MR. WENHAM, ABOUT YOUR WIFE BEING DEAD”]

And when we drove away from the cottage at the end of the summer, I myself perhaps a shade saddened, as one often is by the thought that the days of sunshine and roses are over, he put his small hand in mine and looked up at me wistfully.

“We liked that little house, didn’t we, dearest?” he said. “We will always like it, won’t we?”

“Do you know my friend Mrs. Wilkins?” he inquired one day, when he was still small enough to wear white frocks, and not old enough to extend his explorations further than the part of the quiet street opposite the house he lived in.

“And who is your friend Mrs. Wilkins?” his mamma inquired.

“She is a very nice lady that saw me through her window when I was playing on the pavement, and we talked to each other, and she asked me to come into her house. She’s such a kind lady, and she paints beautiful cups and saucers. She’s my friend. And her cook is a nice lady too. She lives in the basemen’ and she talks to me through the window. She likes little boys. I have two friends in that house.”

“My friend Mrs. Wilkins” became one of his cherished intimates. His visits to her were frequent and prolonged.

“I’ve just been to see my friend Mrs. Wilkins,” he would say; or, “My friend Mrs. Wilkins’s husband is very kind to me. We go to his store, and he gives me oranges.”

It is not improbable that he also painted china during his calls upon his friend Mrs. Wilkins. It is certain that, if he did not otherwise assist, his attitude was that of an enthusiastic admirer of the art. That his conversation with the lady embraced many subjects, we have evidence in an anecdote frequently related with great glee by those to whom the incident was reported. I myself was not present during the ingenuous summing up of the charm of social life, but I have always mentally seen him taking his part in the scene in one of his celebrated conversational attitudes, in which he usually sat holding his plump knee in a manner which somehow seemed to express deep, speculative thought.

“Are you in society, Mrs. Wilkins?” he inquired, ingenuously.

“What _is_ being in society, Vivvie?” Mrs. Wilkins replied, probably with the intention of drawing forth his views.

“It’s—well—there are a great many carriages, you know, and a great many ladies come to see you. And they say, ‘How _are_ you, Mrs. Burnett? So glad to find you at home.’ Gabble, gabble, gabble, gabble. ‘_Good_ morning!’ And they go away. That’s it.”

I am not quite sure that I repeat the exact phrasing, but the idea is intact, and the point which inspired the hearers with such keen joy was that he had absolutely no intention of making an unfriendly criticism. He was merely painting an impressionist’s picture. On his own part he was fond of society. It delighted him to be allowed to come into the drawing-room on the days when his mamma was “at home.” This function impressed him as an agreeable festivity. As he listened to the “gabble, gabble, gabble,” he beamed with friendly interest. He admired the ladies, and regarded them as beautiful and amiable. It was his pleasure to follow the departing ones into the hall and render them gallant assistance with their wraps.

“I like ladies, dearest,” he would say. “They are so pretty.”

At what age he became strongly imbued with the stanchest Republican principles, it would be difficult to say. He was an unflinching Republican.

“My dearest Mamma,” he wrote me in one of the splendid epistolary efforts of his earliest years, “I am sorry that I have not had time to write to you before. I have been so occupied with the presidential election. The boys in my school knock me down and jump on me because they want me to go Democrat. But I am still a strong Republican. I send you a great many hugs and kisses.

“Your obedient and humble son and servant,

“VIVIAN.”

He was given to inventing picturesque terminations to his letters, and he seemed particularly pleased with the idea of being my humble or obedient son and servant. The picture the letter brought to my mind of a flushed and tumbled but stanch little Republican engaged in a sort of kindergarten political tussle with equally flushed and tumbled little Democrats wore an extremely American aspect. Figuratively speaking, he plunged into the thick of the electioneering fray. He engaged in political argument upon all available occasions. Fortunately for his peace of mind, Carrie and Dan favored the Republican party. Dan took him to see Republican torchlight processions, and held him upon his shoulders while he waved his small hat, his hair flying about his glowing face while he shouted himself hoarse. No unworthy party cry of “’Rah for Hancock!” went unanswered by the clarion response. At the sound of such a cry in the street the nursery windows flew open with a bang, and two ecstatic Republicans (himself and brother) almost precipitated themselves into space, shouting “’Rah for Garfield!” Without such precautions he felt his party would be lost. I think he was six when he discovered that he was a supporter of the movement in favor of female suffrage. It was rather a surprise to us when this revealed itself, but his reasons were of such a serious and definite nature that they were arguments not to be refuted.

[Illustration: “ARE YOU IN SOCIETY, MRS. WILKINS?”]

When he gave them he was leaning against a window-ledge in a room in a seaside home, his hands in his red sash, his countenance charming with animation.

“I believe they ought to be allowed to vote if they like it,” he said, “’cause what should we do if there were no ladies? Nobody would have any mothers or any wives.”

“That is true,” his maternal audience encouraged him by saying. “The situation would be serious.”

“And nobody could grow up,” he proceeded. “When any one’s a baby, you know, he hasn’t any teeth, and he can’t eat bread and things. And if there were no ladies to take care of him when he was very first born he’d die. I think people ought to let them vote if they want to.”

This really seemed so to go to the root of things that the question appeared disposed of.

One laughed and laughed at him. All his prettiness was quaint, and so innocent that its unconsciousness made one smile. Only sometimes—quite often—while one was smiling one was queerly touched and stirred.

What a picture of a beautiful, brave little spirit, aflame with young fervor, he was the day I went into a room and found him reading for the first time in his brief life the story of the American Revolution!

He sat in a large chair, one short leg tucked under him, a big book on his knee, his love-locks tumbling over his ecstasied child face. He looked up, glowing, when I entered. His cheeks were red, his eyes were beautiful.

“Dearest,” he said, “dearest, listen. _Here’s_ a brave man, here’s a brave man! This is what he says, ‘Give me liberty or give me death!’” It was somehow so movingly incongruous—this “pretty page with dimpled chin” stirred so valiantly by his “liberty or death.” I kissed his golden thatch, laughing and patting it, but a little lump was in my throat.

Where did he learn—faithful and tender heart—to be such a lover as he was? Surely no woman ever had such a lover before! What taught him to pay such adorable childish court, and to bring the first-fruits of every delight to lay upon one shrine? In the small garden where he played—a toddling thing, accumulating stains of grass and earth in truly human fashion on his brief white frock—the spring scattered sparsely a few blue violets. How he applied himself to searching for them, to gather them with pretty laboriousness until he had collected a small, warm handful, somewhat dilapidated before it was large enough to be brought up-stairs in the form of a princely floral gift!

It is nearly fourteen years since they were first laid at my feet—these darling little grubby handfuls of exhausted violets—but I can hear yet the sound of the small feet climbing the staircase, stoutly but carefully, the exultant voice shouting at intervals all the way up from the first flight: “Sweet dearest! Sweet de-ar-est! I got somefin’ for you! Please le’ me in.”

So many beautiful names had been tried by turns by himself and brother, but they found “sweetest” and “sweet dearest” the most satisfactory. Finally they decided upon “dearest” as combining and implying the sentiment they were inspired by.

There was in a certain sacred workroom at the top of the house a receptacle known as the “treasure drawer.” It was always full of wonderful things, rich gifts brought carefully and with lavish generosity from the grass in the back yard, from dust heaps, from the street, from anywhere; bits of glass or pebble, gorgeous advertising cards, queerly shaped twigs or bits of wood, pictures out of papers, small, queer toys, possessing some charm which might make them valuable to an appreciative maternal relative. And just before they were presented I always heard the small feet on the stairs, the knock on the door, and the delightful, confiding voice outside: “Please, may I come in? I’ve brought a treasure for you, dearest.”

We always spoke of them as “treasures.” They seemed so beautiful and valuable to the donor, that love brought them at once as a gift to love, and the recipient saw them with his eyes.

The very first bud which appeared on the oldfashioned rose-bushes at the back of the house was watched for and discovered when it was a tiny, hard, green thing.

“There’s a bud,” he would say, “and I’m watching till it is a rose, so that I can give it to you.”

There is nothing so loving as a child who is loved. What valuable assistance he rendered in the matter of toilet! How charmed he was with any pretty new thing! How delighted to be allowed to put on slippers or take them off, to stand by the dressing-table and hand pins, and give the benefit of his admiring advice. And how adorable it was to come home late from a party and find the pincushion adorned with a love-letter, scrawled boldly in lead pencil and secured by a long pin. In conjunction with his brother—who was the troubadour of love from his infancy, and who has a story of his own—he invented the most delightful surprises for those late returns. Sometimes pieces of candy wrapped in paper awaited the arrival, sometimes _billets doux_, sometimes singular rhymes courageously entitled “A Valentine.” The following was the fine flower of all:

“MY MAMA

“O my swetest little mama, Sweteness that can ne’er be told Dwells all decked in glory behind thy bosom folds. In love and tender sweteness Thy heart has no compare And as through the path of sorrow Thy heart goes wangering on Thow always lend a helping hand To all who are alone.

“ESEX ESSEX.”

“What does ‘Essex’ mean, darling?” I asked.

“I don’t know what it means,” he said, sweetly, “and I didn’t spell it right at first. But, you know, when any one writes poetry they nearly always put another name at the end, and I thought Essex would do.” He was so desirous of making it complete!